


Suspended Animation

by resurrectedhippo



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Bottom Steve Rogers, Bottom Tony Stark, Canon Divergence - Post-Avengers (2012), Cap-Iron Man Big Bang 2020, Codependency, Depression, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marriage, Moving On, Superfamily, Switching, Terminal Illnesses, Top Steve Rogers, Top Tony Stark, turbo angst galore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:48:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 50,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27466702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resurrectedhippo/pseuds/resurrectedhippo
Summary: The temporary cessation of most vital functions without death.It means slowing down life processes in order to ensure survival. It’s the body’s last attempt to preserve its life form without termination. It’s living in the barest conditions. Surviving is not the same thing as living.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 28
Kudos: 62
Collections: 2020 Captain America/Iron Man Big Bang





	Suspended Animation

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a culmination of the last eleven months. Grief is an awful friend. Rest in power and rest easy. All the love to you <3
> 
> I had the pleasure to work with [synn3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssyn3/works) for this bang. Thank you for bringing life into this fic! You can view synn's art [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27458287). Please go and give her work some love. It's also embedded in the fic.
> 
> Huge thank you to [Alpine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/In_umbra_gratia) for the beta, who warns of "headache inducing crying." Thank you to [Winterstar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterstar) for the initial feedback and cheer. Big thanks to the Cap-IM BB Mods for running this fest!
> 
> So, this is my take on superfamily.

Steve didn’t have a fundamental moment to pinpoint when it began.

Carol told him that in her case, it was after a terrible date after four months of dating Rhodes. The waitress spilled wine on her dress and Rhodes laughed. On the way home, Carol insisted on walking instead of hailing a cab. 

There was a flash of light before the clouds started pouring. They walked across Manhattan and paused in the middle of the road, laughing and smiling at each other. It was that moment, Carol said, that she knew she was in love with Rhodes. 

Christmas Eve dinners at the Tower had grown exponentially in the past decade. Whereas Tony and Steve used to keep it amongst the original Avengers during their tenure as superheroes, now the Tower’s dining table had to be enlarged at least three times its size. Tony had a fit about the New Avengers, retired Avengers, and their family coming all together for the holidays. The man loved to hold court and pretend he was disgruntled. 

It was Christmas again. How many Christmases did he spend without Tony, when they were both out of touch with each other, living their own lives apart across many states? When Steve was under ice? How long did they spend apart when Steve was in DC and Tony was flying back and forth between Malibu and Manhattan?

Scott and Hope were in the living room with Cassie, chatting about some television show they have all started watching. Steve spotted Clint and Laura with their now adult daughter, Lila, out in the roof top garden having beers with Rhodes. 

How nice it must be for two parents to watch their kid grow up. 

Natasha was curled by the fireplace, fingertips tapping away on her tablet. After all the heckling Bucky’s given her about bringing work during dinner, he has long given up on prying the tablet from her hands. 

Steve guessed that’s what happened when Agent Romanoff retired from the field—she needed to oversee active missions. Fury passed on the torch to her and Maria Hill five years ago. Rumor had it that Fury went to work for another underground organization or was running ops in outer space. Steve didn’t bother asking anymore. Maria and Natasha just smirked and ignored any snide comments about that.

Natasha caught his eye when he stepped out of the kitchen with a bowl of chips and hummus. She offered a small smile, looking proud, even though there’s no reason to be. Maybe it’s because he showered and shaved his unruly beard. 

Steve set the bowl down and touched his jaw. He missed the beard, only because Tony liked to run his fingers on the fine hair and teased him relentlessly about being Captain Handsome.

It took Steve almost an hour to shave it this morning. Steve set the razor down dozens of times, then picked it up again. The cream on his jaw had turned too soft. He kept looking at the mirror, wondering what Tony would say about his fresh face. He didn’t have a sharp jaw like Tony, but Steve’s been told he’s got a strong chin. _Captain Handsome,_ Tony would say between kisses. 

“Hello, Avengers!” Morgan rushed out her room with Peter and Harley in tow. 

Steve lips twitched. The feeling of his mouth dragging up seemed like a foreign concept. He savored the feeling, even if he felt guilty. It’s okay to smile, even without—

No, best not to think about that. He nodded, determined, and forced his lips to turn up higher. 

Natasha held his gaze for a moment. She had always seen past his defenses. There wasn't a wall that Agent Romanoff couldn’t penetrate. This time, Nat didn’t bother him with platitudes. 

She glanced away and waved the kids over for a hug. Over the years, she became freer with her affection. Steve didn’t know if that was because she couldn’t have kids because of the experimentation in the Red Room.

Some people just wanted peace and in the yearning, they would take crumbs. Steve’s lucky, he thought to himself, he had friends who loved his children. Who would care for them if anything happened to him. That made things easier. 

Harley ran over and smacked a kiss on her cheek, “Aunt Nat, my favorite Aunt!”

“I can hear you, Harley. Keep behaving like that and you won’t get your present from us tonight!” Carol rolled her eyes. She made her way to Steve, gave him a half-hug and a brief squeeze on the bicep. “Steve. You look good.” 

He grabbed a beer from the ice chest and flicked it open with his thumb. Steve took a swing before replying to Carol. He needed to gather his practiced response. Steve was sure Carol and Rhodes would suggest another session with the on-call Avengers therapist. 

He’s fine. 

He didn’t need to talk to a shrink.

Steve didn’t want that. He could do this, dammit. Hadn’t he been doing well? He cooked for his kids every fucking morning after running ten miles. He doted on them, reminded them they were loved, and that their parents loved them. Told them stories, wished them goodnight and sweet dreams, and promised them that they’ll be alright.

 _We love you,_ he would pass them their packed lunch and see them out the door as they headed off to school. We love you so much. Have a good day.

Everything was fine. 

“Thanks, Carol.” He sounded curt even to his own ears. Fuck, he couldn’t help it. Maybe he was just bound to be a miserable asshole now. Grief made people bitter. 

She frowned, her lips pressing into a thin line. “It wasn’t meant to be rude, Steve.”

He sighed, letting the cool drink calm him. Carol was a friend. She didn’t mean any harm. She was checking on Steve, making sure he’s still sane and about to—

“No, yeah, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound curt.” He set the bottle down, leaned on the counter, away from the celebrating group. “It’s just, you know. ”

“Yeah, we’re here, Steve.” Carol twisted down to grab a bottle of beer. She clicked it with Steve’s empty one and nodded. 

He swallowed, blinked, once, twice, trying to shake the intense feeling of emptiness away. No, he wasn’t going to do that now. He’d break down in their room later once all their friends left for their respective homes. Once the kids were asleep. 

Just like he always did every night, Steve will drop into the same sheets he’d shared with his husband for the better half of a decade. He’ll take out all the clothes from Tony’s drawer and run his hands all over them—the silky ties, the suit jackets, his cotton socks. Steve will carry it all to the bed and hope like hell it still smelled like Tony. In the morning, he’ll wake up early, fold the shirts, hang the suit pants, putting them all back to their original places. Then, he’ll run around New York, return to the brownstone, and cook breakfast for his family, just like he always did. 

Yes, that was a good plan. Routine was important to the process. 

Rhodes caught his eye from the dining table, hesitating for a moment, before he set the cutlery down on the table. 

Tony used to do that. 

Steve didn’t try to correct him. 

* * *

It was another boring Tuesday. 

Everything seemed stagnant. Steve had a mediocre job that no longer granted him satisfaction. He was an Avenger when there was a world catastrophe, but mostly, SHIELD had him running around the country putting out fires with Natasha and Clint. He learned that agents were constrained by protocols and always had the possibility of being subdued and dismissed if they didn’t follow the ironclad rules.

It wasn’t working for Steve. 

SHIELD established standards of handling crime and crisis. He wasn’t allowed to question Fury’s authority and had to blindly trust the man. He didn’t understand how Natasha and Clint followed along. He was a soldier, so he was well-versed on keeping his mouth shut. But Steve reached the limit when his powers were just used to contain crises without question. 

At least, when he had missions with the Avengers, Tony gave him the complete run down, asked for his input on strategy, and didn’t bother him with mission reports. “JARVIS will handle it,” Tony said, looking smug. “Just read it over, sign it, and we’ll send it over to SHIELD. God, it’s like you all are still in the dark ages with your paper copies and filing system.”

When he wasn’t on a mission, Steve’s days were split between his desk and departmental meetings. Sometimes he suspected Fury only hired him for public relations purposes. Captain America belonged to SHIELD; Captain America was keeping the country safe. 

Sometimes, he wondered whether it was better if he just disappeared, became a faceless, average man. 

He’s the face of America even when he couldn’t answer a journalist’s question without stumbling through his words and introducing each sentence with “Erm,” or “Um.” He had a script from a SHIELD PR employee memorized, but he struggled to spit the words out. 

He didn’t even know what the hell he was doing there. But it was his only thread to the future, a starting point. Maybe he’d figure out what he wanted to do. What he wanted in this life.

He had become so apathetic about his job that he no longer volunteered for missions, choosing instead to leave the facility the minute his shift was over. In his free time, he worked odd PR jobs—whatever Maria Hill penciled into his calendar, like PSA’s or photo-ops at the children’s hospital. He volunteered at an orphanage in Flatbush, shopped at the bodega in his corner, and shoved all his change into the plastic container, tipping the teenage kid who greeted him with a salute. 

He saw his friends everyday—that’s what Natasha and Clint were, right? Friends. He had those, now, Bucky would be proud.

All in all, Steve lived a pretty quiet life despite the public scrutiny as Captain America. No one paid Steve Rogers any mind if he was out of the suit and cowl. He sort of learned how to avoid the press after missions and found an acceptable time he had to stay at SHIELD functions before he could leave.

He had only been awake for 14 months, but he was ready to fall back into the ocean and get this life over with. 

He couldn’t tie his entire personhood and purpose to serve. Not anymore. Not since waking up.

One day, a man woke up and 70 years went by. His SHIELD-instituted councilors wrote that Steve was “coping well,” on his report. He was cleared for the field and only required to see the councilors once a month. He was normal. He was fine. Fury had him leading missions across the globe because his psychological assessment was deemed passable. 

If he wasn’t in the office, he ran around the High Line, sketched Stark Tower from several cafes, and spent time walking all around Manhattan and Brooklyn documenting all that’s changed in his little notebook. 

SHIELD found him in the Arctic. He survived because the serum preserved his body. 

_Suspended animation,_ an agent told him in a monotone voice. Life was slowed down without termination. A living creature may appear to be dead but it's just their body fighting for survival by dropping to a dormant state. 

The serum saved him. 

Natasha reasoned that Steve needed to relax. She raised an eyebrow after one mission, when Steve beat someone’s face bloody and dislocated his jaw. She wondered out loud that Captain America needed a vacation. Natasha made passing comments about jumping out of helicarriers without a parachute and into positions he didn’t really understand. 

He couldn’t recall the conversation. He was too distracted by the promise of belonging somewhere, a team, even if it meant secret missions and being a military guard dog. 

Dating didn’t interest him. He yearned for the familiar, so he moved back to his neighborhood in Brooklyn, but when he walked around the borough, the buildings appeared unfamiliar. The world moved on without him. Steve was still playing catch up.

Steve took the subway often, riding and getting off whenever he felt like it. Destination unknown. Sometimes, he grimly thought that living life in limbo was like riding a subway car alone. He often did that when returning from SHIELD headquarters in Queens, riding back to Brooklyn late in the evening. Sometimes, he’d share the car with people going into the city for a night-shift. Sometimes, Steve would greet them, desperate to talk to someone who didn’t deal with international crises. But most times, Steve was alone, stuck with his own thoughts and desire to belong. 

Sometimes he found himself wishing to see Tony.

Sometimes, he pictured Tony’s mocking smirk before he brought a cigar to his lips. He wondered how Tony coped with the smell of ash and tar. Every time Steve went for business at the Stark Tower with Natasha and Maria in tow, Tony’s office smelled of whiskey and his heavy cologne. There was the underlying scent of cigars, too, but they weren’t like the ones Dum Dum used to smoke. The stench of the cigar was so strong, and again, he mused if Tony liked it.

Steve sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. He was still in his office at the SHIELD facility. Natasha was across the hall, pouring over files on the Winter Soldier with Clint. Steve needed to be alone. He replayed the video again. 

It was Bucky. The tape was blurry, but there was no doubt that he was the Winter Soldier they’ve been tracking for the last few months. They bastardized his best friend. 

Steve fought him in the helicarrier and had his ass handed to him. 

Fuck. If Steve didn’t have the serum to assuage the bursts of headaches he had received in these last 36 hours, he’d probably be throwing up all over his desk. Somehow, after months of research, they found this grainy recording of Howard and Maria Stark.

Steve stared at the old television and VHS player for a beat, then he played the tape again.

The Winter Soldier—no, Bucky—got off of the motorcycle as the car crashed into a tree. Howard Stark begged for help and Bucky punched his face until he stopped breathing. Maria Stark was next. Another blink, then the tape sizzled into static. 

Steve watched it another three times before writing his notes on a legal pad. It’s just a jumbled mess of thoughts and read more like reflections on life in the new century. What the fuck was he doing here? What the fuck was going on with SHIELD? HYDRA? Bucky was alive and was HYDRA’s pawn? What was the difference between HYDRA and SHIELD? Did Nick Fury know about this? 

Steve didn’t know how much time passed, but he was resolute in seeing Tony Stark tonight. He slammed a hand down, folded the pages of notes neatly and pocketed them. Steve put on his jacket, grabbed his briefcase, and headed out.

Across the hall, Natasha’s door remained open. Her face was impassive. Steve considered this as her worried look. She raised an eyebrow. 

“I’m going to Tony Stark’s.” He paused by the door and straightened. “I’m going to tell him what we found. He could help us.”

“I hope Stark’s in a better place now. He just finished that mess with the Mandarin a few months ago.” She crossed her arms and leaned back on the rolling chair. She had the air of a woman who took no shit and was used to being right. 

“We should have been there,” Steve gritted out. 

SHIELD had scheduled a deep cover for their team the same time Tony’s Mandarin fiasco happened. 

“He could have called.” Clint’s mouth twisted into something sour. He perched on the edge of Natasha’s desk with a folder on one hand. “Let us know how he is, though.”

“Are you sure you want to tell him?” Natasha stood up, grabbing the file from Clint’s hands. She handed them over to Steve. 

“It’s the right thing to do. Fuck whatever SHIELD says.”

Clint whistled. “Damn, language, Cap.” 

“Good choice, Cap.” Natasha quirked her lips. 

“Tony. He’ll help. He’ll understand.” Steve wasn’t sure if he was forcing himself or Natasha to believe that. 

“I hope so,” she replied. “Do you want back up?”

“I’ll handle it,” Steve shook his head and walked away with determination he didn’t feel.

* * *

Tony was wearing a faded yellow t-shirt in big, bold curvy font stating, ACDC. He wasn’t wearing trousers. His red checkered boxers peaked just below the t-shirt. There was a dust of fine hair on his shins and there were stains on his knobby knees. Steve barely had the moment to clear his throat and turn his eyes away from Tony’s legs. He’s seen legs before. He was in the army, for fucks sake. 

He was here for a serious conversation. “Hi, Tony.” 

“Cap? What are you doing here at two in the morning?” Tony stood in front of the penthouse elevator with his head tilted, both hands on his hips. “Why are you blushing?”

“Er, Tony.” He cleared his throat again, trying to focus. There were cowlicks on the crown of his head. It was a riot of soft curls. “Can I come in?”

“You showing up here in the middle of the night. I must be dreaming.” Tony leered, dragging his eyes from the top of Steve’s head to the tip of his toes, then back again. “I’m assuming this isn’t a social call?” Tony rolled his eyes then waved Steve further into the penthouse. 

He shook his head, then realized Tony wasn’t even looking at him. Instead, Tony sat on the sleek leather couch, cross-legged, and waved him over. 

“No. I’m sorry to wake you,” Steve measured out, feeling slightly awkward and annoyed that he had to be here at all. If the world wasn’t so fucked, then maybe Tony’s parents would still be alive and he wouldn’t have to tell Howard’s son that his best friend, Bucky Barnes, was the one who orphaned him. 

Life was a thread in which people were cut. Steve’s life was patterned over Tony’s own, even if they lived different worlds, had different lives, had lived different centuries.

Tony made a disgruntled sound, sitting forward and settling his legs on the coffee table. “Well, I guess I was up anyway.”

“You weren’t sleeping?” Steve sat on the other end of the couch, setting the briefcase on his lap. “I think you should be getting rest, Tony. From my understanding, you just had the arc reactor removed, right?” 

Tony narrowed his eyes, suspicious, doing that thing where he tried to be nonchalant. “Yeah, sure, let’s go with that.”

“Tony.” He flicked the switches open and close, summoning the courage to look into Tony’s eyes. Tony Stark made him nervous and restless. 

Tony snorted, playing with the hem of his t-shirt. Steve tried to drag his eyes away from his bare feet. There was something about being in Tony’s space, his home, that made him realize that Tony Stark wasn’t just the CEO of SI or Iron Man. Well, Steve’s always separated the two, but thus far, he’s only caught glimpses of Tony Stark.

Steve didn’t know him well and it’s unfortunate that the realization only came now, in a moment of crisis. 

“Cap, we fought a handful of battles together and saved the world, yeah, but you don’t need to mother hen me. Don’t worry so much.”

“Well, you’re my teammate, so it’s my business.” He jutted his chin out, irritated. “Please take care of yourself, Tony.”

“Fine, let’s get this over with then I’ll take a cat nap.” Tony removed his feet from the coffee table and turned to fully face Steve. His calves were strong, muscular, and hairy. 

Steve should stop looking. He swallowed, feeling the heat rise from his belly. He focused his gaze on the space between Tony’s eyebrows.

He took a deep breath. “I’m here about your parents.”

The last time he saw Tony was during a SHIELD debrief six months ago. Iron Man was called in to assist with a mission in the Southwest. It was sort of jarring for Steve to see Iron Man in battle again, flying in the air, the blue of the sky a stark contrast with the red and gold of the suit. The vivid colors were made brighter by the sun, looking hard and untouchable. 

Steve knew that Tony Stark was always armored. He had a wrist watch that turned into a repulsor. Steve’s seen the watch transform into a gauntlet. It was like watching something brilliant and great unfold just for him.

Tony Stark was a man who knew he was handsome and brilliant, but he seemed to doubt that he was wanted. Maybe that’s Steve’s fault. They didn’t have a good start with at the helicarrier. Their camaraderie seemed better after a few missions, but those have been far in between. SHIELD tried to keep Tony Stark out of their business, only using him as a consultant when it benefited them. 

All these shady, underhanded points have crossed his mind, but like most men, Steve didn’t trace the connections until it affected him and punched him in the face. 

“My parents?” Tony furrowed his brows, confused. “If you want anything related to the 40’s or Howling Commandos, all of Howard’s professional papers and belongings have been archived in the SI museum. You can make an appointment with, you know what, nevermind. J, can you schedule Steve a meeting with the head archivist—” 

“No, Tony. It’s not that. It’s something else.” 

He opened the case and gave Tony the files he smuggled out of SHIELD. Fuck Fury and whatever he has to say, Tony deserved to know. 

“I couldn’t bring the tape with me, but I’m sure you can hack into SHIELD and access it.” Steve set the folder in between them. It contained their spotty research on the Winter Soldier and HYDRA up to date. There was a lot of retracted information from SHIELD’s files, but the most important document led evidence to Howard and Maria’s death. 

“You’re encouraging me to hack into SHIELD?” Tony smiled. It disappeared once he saw the first page on the manila folder. 

“For this.” He scrubbed his face again. “There’s more. HYDRA infiltrated SHIELD. They’re so embedded into the organization that it's hard to distinguish who reports to who. Natasha and Clint are there now tracking and making maps regarding those in power… we could use your help, Tony.” 

Tony ignored him, grasping the folder and flipped the crisp pages. Steve trailed off, feeling out of place. 

He straightened his back, catching Tony’s hand and pausing them before he could flip to the next page. Tony frowned, looking at Steve with searching eyes. 

“Your parents’ death wasn’t an accident. It was an operation by HYDRA. There’s a tape to prove it.” He shoved aside the selfish, fleeting thought to keep this from Tony. But Steve wasn’t that man. “The other thing… The assassin they sent in the mission was my best friend, James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky.” Steve willed himself not to tremble and he loosened his grip on Tony’s wrist. “I’m not sure about the details yet. But he didn’t die when he fell from the train. Somehow, HYDRA got a hold on him.”

“And brainwashed him and made him their murder doll,” Tony finished, pulling away from Steve to read the rest of the files. “The script’s already written, and it’s a shitty-ass one at that. God. Fucking hell. How trite. They take Captain America’s bestfriend and turn him into a world-known assassin. What a plot.” 

“Tony?” 

Tony waved a hand at him, hushing. “Shut up for a sec, Steve. Let me read. J, baby, you awake? Can you help me?”

A voice rang from above. “Certainly, sir. Anything for you. Hello, Captain Rogers.”

“Yeah, yeah, Captain America is here, don’t get so excited. We’re hunting for HYDRA now.”

Steve’s insides twisted up. He wasn’t sure how much of Bucky was still there in the programming. Natasha has warned that “Bucky” may no longer exist and went as far as to note that Bucky died when he fell from the train. He’s been HYDRA’s guard dog for seventy years. But Steve couldn’t give up on him. 

“Tony, Bucky—it wasn’t his fault. I’m not sure how much he remembers.” Steve pinched the space between his eyebrows. He sighed, then glanced up at Tony. “Or if he even remembers me at all. I think he does. He could have taken a shot at me but he didn’t—I think…”

Tony stared at him with a frown. “Relax, Rogers, I’m not gonna hunt your buddy. Not if he could be saved. But you’re not stopping me from hunting HYDRA.”

“No, I’m there with you.”

“Okay, good.” Tony eyed him closely for a beat, then seemed to decide on something. He snapped his fingers and a digital keyboard appeared from his watch. He leaned forward, setting his feet to the wooden floors, hands going to the keyboard. “J, hack into SHIELD and copy their files into my personal servers. Filter everything you have on The Winter Soldier and James Buchanan Barnes.” 

A hologram screen appeared from the coffee table. Tony stood with a burst of energy, then, he barked orders at JARVIS, mumbling to himself, then glaring at Steve before slapping the screens left and right. He read intently and kept notes with JARVIS help.

Steve watched, awe-struck to see Tony Stark in his element. The word genius didn’t cover it. He was more an enigma, something Steve didn’t even try to name. All words failed him. He watched Tony pace across the room, swiping his hands on the holoscreens to expand them and bring them forward. He talked to J, running scenarios and summarizing files. At some point, the holoscreens followed Tony as he brewed a cup of strong coffee.

He set one mug on the side table for Steve. He took a sip of coffee. It had a splash of milk, just the way he liked it. The fact that Tony knew the way he liked his coffee made him feel warm, despite the severity of the situation. Tony couldn’t have known, but he did. Maybe he learned it during their mission debriefs. Still, the face that someone who didn’t have to keep track of such a trite, ordinary, fact, warmed him. It was like they were friends. Maybe they could be.

“Captain America?” Steve raised the cup, inspecting the red, white, and blue shield painted on the side. 

“Gag gift from Rhodey.” Tony rolled his eyes. “My honeybear thinks he’s being funny.” 

He felt his lips tug into a smile. “I’ll have to get one with Iron Man. I think there’s a matching set at the bodega down my street.” 

“Matching set, huh?” Tony paused, hand up in the air. He still looked keyed up, but his eyes were red-rimmed and heavy. 

“The kid working the shop said you can’t have Captain America without Iron Man.” Steve sipped his coffee again, not sure why he said that, it wasn’t even true. He saw that as a line in a newspaper, in passing. It was a sensationalist article about the Avengers coming together as a team during the Battle of New York. Steve pressed forward, setting the half-empty mug on the table. “Tony, do you want to wait until the morning to continue? Have a break? Catch some sleep, maybe?”

“It’s already morning,” he tutted, sending a digital clock towards Steve. “4:11am to be exact.” 

“Do you want breakfast?”

“Do you want breakfast?” Tony parroted back with a smirk, still just in his t-shirt and boxers. “I’m finally getting somewhere here, Cap. Let me at this for a few more minutes.”

Steve sighed and let Tony continue. He felt for the note in his jacket pocket, reading through the thoughtless musings. He pulled a pen from his briefcase and wrote two words: Tony Stark. 

“Steve.” Tony sat beside him, eyes on the monitor. 

Steve resurfaced, not even realizing that he was sketching Tony. He didn’t try to hide the yellow note. Tony already saw it anyway. 

“Hm?”

“Is this the video you’re talking about?” He pointed on the screen. There it was, the sepia tone he’s become familiar with these last 16 hours.

Tony clicked play before Steve could respond. Steve forced himself to watch, alternating between the screen and Tony’s face. 

It was just a two minute video, yet Tony’s life spun across the axis. Steve watched Tony’s expression turn from nonchalance to confusion and hurt. Finally, as Maria’s face came on screen, it settled into rage. Tony stood quietly, wiped his hands over his jeans, then grabbed the whiskey bottle and began drinking. Steve watched his hands shake on the bottle.

“Fuck,” Tony barked, twisting the cap open. He didn’t bother grabbing a glass to pour the whiskey into. “I really shouldn’t drink. Rhodey and Pepper will have my ass if they find out. So you won’t tell them, right, Cap? Well, no.” Tony tilted his head after a swing. He dropped the bottle with a slam that echoed through the room. “You don’t seem to be good at keeping secrets.” 

“Tony, I’m so sorry. I’m deeply, deeply, sorry. I’m so—” Steve pushed off from the couch and forced himself to stand on rocky legs. He just witness a man learn about his parent’s murder. There were no platitudes to offer. 

“You think Barnes, Bucky—whatever it is you call him, is still worth saving?” Tony chewed on his lips before taking another large sip from the decanter. “I really want to fucking hit something. But I’m told that’s not healthy.” 

Steve swallowed the sound of protest rising from his chest. If Tony wanted to hit something, it might as well be Steve. He could take it. He didn’t try to approach Tony. He wasn’t sure what he could do. “Yes. Of course. Everyone is worth saving.” 

Tony’s face remained impassive, the only give away to his anger was the tilted smirk. It wasn’t in victory; he wore the same masks in front of the press and Fury. It was a jagged, forced smile that belied the hurt in his eyes. 

“You really think that, don’t you? Not everyone, Steve, is worth it. You should learn that by now.” Tony looked away, flicked more screens, expanded others. He finally spoke up once the sun started crawling from the horizon. “Alright, well, first things first, I advise you to ditch SHIELD, they can’t be trusted if HYDRA’s embedded in the organization. Romanoff and Barton seem reformed, will they follow you? Hold that thought. Then, we’ll have to track Barnes. J, use my satellite and screen all CCTV’s for anything resembling Barnes.”

“Tony, you don’t have to do any of this.” Steve flexed his fingers, lost. 

“Well, why’d you come here if you didn’t want help?”

He had hoped Tony would help, but more than that, he wanted Tony to know the truth. 

“I came to just tell you about your parents. I understand if you don’t want to take any part of this. You shouldn’t have to—”

“And give you all the fun? No thanks. Weren’t you the one who made a speech about doing things together? Well here it is. I guess Fury’s boyband is finally taking off.” Tony sighed, glancing at the windows. There’s the skyline. It’s still too early in the morning for the sun to rise. But New York never slept. The buildings kept twinkling.

A smile escaped him and he wished he was braver. Because if Steve Rogers had half the courage, or maybe, recklessness of Captain America, he would have clapped Tony on the back. Or maybe, pull him into an embrace. “You’re too good, Tony. This world doesn’t deserve you.” 

“Not sure about that, Cap. I’ve got sin I need to repent for.” Tony rewarded him with a forced grin that seemed misplaced given the dire situation they’re about to run head-first into.

* * *

They settled on the long table: Scott, Hope, and Cassie on one end with Sam, Bucky, and Natasha near Steve. Carol and Rhodey sat in the middle. Across from them were the Bartons. Their kids sat in the empty seats. Steve tried not to choke when Peter took the seat on the other end of the table. Tony’s seat.

His son looked at him questioningly, tilting his head down with an encouraging smile. As if his father needed it. No, it shouldn’t be like that. Steve forced his lips into a smile. A mimicry of the real thing.

Harley sat beside Rhodey and engaged him in a conversation.

Morgan patted Steve’s hand. “Ready?”

He wanted to tell her the truth—no, he’d never be ready; no one was ever ready to live their lives alone. Tony could come up with hundreds of research articles showing Morgan how humans were social creatures and evolved in community. 

No matter how many wars they waged against other human beings, no one wanted to spend their days alone. 

He had his family, this little Christmas celebration, that should be enough. 

But it wasn’t because Steve’s heart broke at the sight of Peter sitting on Tony’s chair. It's awful to be the one who survived to deal with the loss. The dead? They don't have to deal with that.

“Yes, sweetheart,” Steve replied. 

He turned back to his friends—family—they all appeared to be waiting for him to say something. Steve had nothing to say unless it was to describe the emptiness of living. Waiting.

Waiting for his turn.

Steve choked up on the words swirling in his mind. He flattened his tongue, swallowed. He didn’t want to sob. Not today. No, no. He wasn’t. He nodded, determined, and placed a tortilla on Morgan’s plate. “Thanks for being here. Merry Christmas. Let’s eat.”

It seemed to satisfy them all. Steve stared at his plate—a slice of chicken, rice, and beans. It wasn’t a classic Christmas meal, but it was Tony’s favorite. He cut the chicken methodologically, shoved it in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. His stomach felt cold, but he forced the food down. He couldn’t taste it.

* * *

“So, I say we celebrate kicking HYDRA’s ass with food from my favorite Mexican restaurant.” Tony clapped his hands together, unbothered at the dried up blood from his face. The face plate was ripped out of his helmet earlier. His lips were split and bloody. 

“We gotta debrief,” Steve said, voice hoarse. He ignored the twitch in his chest at the sight of Tony. His hair was matted with sweat and dirt. A drop of perspiration trailed down his temples, but he was grinning, proud, unlike the tense months that led up to this moment in HYDRA’s main base. 

Maybe now they could all finally breathe.

“Nah, we don’t. You’re not SHIELD, anymore, baby. Unless you wanna go back to your ex and ditch the Avengers?” Tony walked over and clapped him on the shoulder. 

“If by ex you mean Fury, then no thanks, Tony.” Steve glances down, willing his heart to calm. He’s still in the high of victory with endorphins from the fight. The left side of his body was sore from the fall he took, but he paid it no mind.

He turned to Bucky who was squatting on the far side of the field. He was staring at Tony like a ghost. 

“Hey, Manchurian Candidate, have you ever had Mexican food?” Tony grunted, face twisting in pain. “I’m starved. I’ll have to call in advance to make sure they’ve got enough food for two super-soldiers though.”

“We should get you to medical first, Tony. Romanoff and Barton, too.” Steve shook his head, heart bursting. Tony took everything to stride, even when he was hurt and upset. Even when he didn’t need to offer Bucky a hand and pull him up. Steve admired him. One day, maybe, he’ll be a man half as good as Tony Stark. 

“I never had that.” Bucky eyed him, suspiciously. They’ve worked a few missions taking out HYDRA once the fiasco with SHIELD was revealed. Bucky had been tracking them and assisting from afar, too afraid to get close to Steve and the team in case he was triggered. 

It all came head to head in this facility. Natasha threw a dagger on Pierce's forehead, while Rumlow was replusored in the ass. Sitwell and other minions were being taken into Fury's custody. Steve didn't trust them one bit—and he'd rather go independent with Tony, knowing that Fury's moral compass was sort of skewed. 

“You’ll love it. Rice, beans, grilled chicken.” Tony made a kissing sound and padded to check on Clint and Natasha. “You gotta get my favorite though, chile verde. But come to the Tower for that. I have a recipe from an ex-girlfriend’s grandmother.”

Steve dropped beside Bucky and put his shield down. He removed the cowl and wiped his sweaty hair back. “Hey, Buck. I’m not sure what you want to do. If you want to just stay away from all this superhero stuff, I think Tony can get you a new identity after the rest of your triggers are removed.”

“You think I’m gonna let you do all this superhero stuff yourself? Punk. So that’s your guy, huh?” Bucky shoved a knife back to its leather sheath. 

“What? Uh, no, Buck, it’s not like that,” Steve directed his gaze back to Bucky. He didn’t realize he was staring at Tony. “Not at all. We’re just teammates.”

“Sure, not yet, but you got your eyes on him.” Bucky snorted, then nodded. “I don’t remember much, but I’ve been trained to observe humans and find what’s valuable to them. Call it finding one’s incentive or motivation.”

“You must have hit your head, dumbass. It’s not like that between us.”

“Don’t try to turn this on me, Steve. You’re so obvious. I’ve been tailing you all for a while now and every time Tony does something half as reckless as you, you get your panties in a twist, yelling at comms.” Bucky sighed, “You sure know how to pick trouble.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Steve didn’t try to deny it. He watched Tony exchange words with Hill and some other agents. He rattled off directions to Maria and her second in command, pointing at the broken computers at the side of the room.

Eventually, Tony made his way back to their group. “Barton, Romanoff, Barnes. You all wanna get this Avengers thing going? I think I got Cap on the ‘hell yes’ list. I’ve got a mansion upstate that we can turn into some sort of facility. Weed out the rest of HYDRA, make sure SHIELD has some sort of oversight because this government sure as hell isn’t gonna be doing that. You could go independent. I’ll offer spousal insurance, Barton.” 

Clint barked a laugh, “I’m retiring after this mess, Stark.”

“Alright, well, I’m sure there are other enhanced humans out there who’d want to be part of this...whatever it is.” Tony stood over him, a sculpture of red and gold. He offered his armored hand. 

Steve took it with a grateful smile. “Yeah, whatever else this turns out to be, you’ll do good in the world, Tony.”

“Oh, don't look so earnest now. And you mean we, right, Cap, because I assumed we’d be doing this together.” 

“Yeah, us.” Steve squeezed Tony’s hand, then stepped back as Romanoff flipped forward. She smirked at Bucky, and god, what a thought. “Together.”

“So, Barnes, Mexican food. In seventy years, you’ve never had it? You’re missing out, man.” Tony flicked his fingers, urging them all up and out the facility. “Come along, come along.” 

Steve laughed, stepping up to walk beside Tony. Life was good. Steve belonged somewhere—to a team, maybe. One thing was certain: he and Tony were friends. They’d lead Avengers together.

Steve could be happy.

* * *

Steve pushed his plate away, not hungry. He’s taken to shoving food down his throat because he needed the energy. He needed to sustain his health for his kids. He was alive goddamn it, so why was it so hard to live?

He listened to the conversations around the table, chiming in and nodding at the right places so it didn’t look like he was lost in memories again. On his left, Bucky nudged him, pushing the plate of corn tortillas towards Steve. 

He grabbed one, bit it, then set it back down. He looked at Morgan and the mess of salsa on her lips. 

Sometimes Steve hated that she looked like Tony. Maybe Steve’s just seeing the things he wanted to see. Everyone would agree that her eyes, bright, brown, full of life, were Tony’s. 

Sometimes he didn’t want to look at her.

Some days he avoided her. Those were the worst days—when he spent all day wrapped up in guilt. 

Across the way sat Peter and Harley who didn’t look like Steve either. They didn’t share the same blood, but that didn’t matter. Genetics were nothing; he and Tony believed everything came down to nurturing—showing his kids that they were loved, reminding them they were cherished, even if sometimes Steve forgot the words, too consumed by his grief.

Steve promised to do better.

He and Tony had such funny kids. Morgan loved doing cartwheels and fancied herself as a gymnast one day, then she’d spend afternoons turning the pages to classic texts and called herself a poet. Harley and Peter were cut from the same thread, finishing each other’s sentences that Tony wondered if they shared a brain. 

They loved science and looked nothing alike. Whereas Peter took after Tony’s earnestness, he was also so naive. Steve didn’t have the heart to tell him that it’s a cold-blooded world full of disappointments. 

Shit, not even fifty and he’s a bitter old man now. 

Harley had learned all of Tony’s sarcasm and had a tendency to talk back to Steve. Like his father, Harley also loved blowing things up in the lab.

They could be anything.

They smiled more with Tony. 

Steve wondered why it was so hard to deal with grief. Why couldn’t it have been Steve with the IV attached to his veins and throwing up in the middle of the night? 

Not Tony. God, not Tony.

There were aliens and gods from other realms, yet Steve couldn’t make a deal with a fallen angel to switch places with Tony. 

It would have been better if it was Steve. If it was Steve, he wouldn’t have to deal with waking up in the middle of the night and sobbing until his chest felt numb. Maybe that’s selfish, because how would Tony deal if Steve died? Would he move on? Would he remarry? He has always been a stronger man than Steve. He would be fine.

There’s a tap on his wrist. Morgan was making his plate again. She scooped some chile verde and looked at it pointedly. 

He didn’t want to eat Tony’s favorite dish. 

He shouldn’t have made it. 

He could never get the taste right, anyway.

Yet here he was, so close to having another breakdown during Christmas dinner. 

Steve swallowed the lump in his throat and shoved the proffered dish down his throat.

Tony used to grill the tomatillos and the jalapenos until they were charred. Steve did the same, following the recipe by the dot. He blended the spices together and let the pork simmer for half the day. The entire brownstone smelled like the tang of peppers and cilantro. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend that it was Tony making dinner. 

The dish tasted sour in his mouth. There was something missing. He couldn’t figure it out even after checking the recipe a dozen times. He stared at Tony’s handwriting. It was one of the few things that belonged to Tony that wasn’t digitized. His handwriting was a mix of thin spidery lines, but when he wrote in cursive, it was all large and loopy.

Steve knew that once the Christmas lights were turned off later, he’d go back to the kitchen and examine the lines in their little make-shift cookbook.

“Papa,” Morgan climbed on his lap. He didn’t even notice that most of the table had cleared, save for Bucky and Rhodes glancing at him in concern.

She wrapped her arms around his shoulder and like so many times throughout the year, he bit his lip and tried not to call her Tony. 

But every time those eyes looked at him in worry, Steve’s life flashed back to him—back to a time when he was happy. He hid his face on her neck and hugged her tight.

Everything was fine. Everyone said holidays were hard.

It’s just any other day. Steve had to live. He had to move on. It would get easier, he hoped. It was a flat-out lie that the living liked to believe.

* * *

It was the second Tuesday of the month. This was their third attempt to use BARF on Bucky.

The days since HYDRA’s defeat have blurred together. But Steve always kept track of Tuesday.

Tuesdays were good days—his lucky days. 

He was selected for Project Rebirth on a Tuesday. 

It was a Tuesday when SHIELD found him in the Arctic.

“You okay?” 

Steve blinked his eyes open, once, twice, and the first thing he saw were Tony’s pupils, a deep brown, clouded with trouble. His eyebrows were furrowed in concern. 

Steve inhaled, then held his breath. “Are you sure he’ll be okay?”

“Do you trust me?” 

“I do,” Steve nodded, looking at Bucky in the simulation room. He was in a HYDRA facility, arms tied to a chair, gritting his teeth. 

“It’s gonna be difficult, there’s no lie there. BARF should help with the traumatic memories. The only downfall is that one has to relive them, but the projection is supposed to help him work through the experience. His assigned therapist will help him make sense of the process, too.”

“It’s gonna be a lot of work, yeah.” He bumped Tony’s shoulder. “Thanks for doing this, Tony. I appreciate it. Not just this,” he looked at the panel, documenting the different buttons, too anxious to meet Tony’s gaze. “I’m grateful for everything else.”

The Compound. Our team. You.

“Well, if it means living a life with some sort of peace, I think it’s worth it.” Tony rubbed at the removable arc reactor on his chest. 

It was no longer attached permanently to his chest. Just a few months ago, he underwent a rigorous surgery to remove the shrapnel. Steve paced the waiting room, waiting for an update for hours. Tony assured him that he’d be fine, but Steve didn’t want to lose another friend. Not on his watch. He just got Bucky back. Everything was going well.

Tony appeased Steve’s worries with the schematics of the new arc reactor that was removable using nanotech. Instead of a perfect circle, it was now a semi-triangle that stood proudly on his sternum. The suit would envelope his body when Tony tapped it twice. It was striking, like seeing the sky for the first time. It would glow blue, then the suit would form over his body. There was only one word for it: ingenious. 

“Yeah, I hope it works.”

“It will work. I’ve tried it.” 

“You did?” Steve turned to Tony, finally meeting his gaze. Only, this time, Tony was staring at Bucky through the partition. 

Tony called it BARF because he didn’t want to talk about feelings. Tony said talking about emotions and trauma made him want to throw up. Yet here he was, the man who opened his mansion to the team, funded them, and built their tech. Maybe Tony preferred self-deprecation when talking about his time in Afghanistan, but Steve saw through the facade. 

“I’ll never figure you out, Tony Stark.” Steve grinned, bumping their shoulders again. It was friendly, no big deal. He was really happy that Tony’s his teammate, friend. _Shellhead._

“I’m an open book.” Tony shrugged, toying with a couple of buttons on the panel. “Ask me anything and I’ll tell you the truth.” He pointed at Bucky, who seemed relaxed in the facility now. There were no more HYDRA agents on site. He was alone, but still on the chair. “He’s doing better. It’ll be good for him to see his therapist after this though. J, can you schedule it?”

“No, you’re not. You pretend you are—you give information but only so people stop bothering you. But you’re here, doing this for Bucky, even when you have all the reason not to. You're a good man, Tony Stark.” Steve shook his head, fond. “Look at you. You’re taking care of us. You do that, you know. For all the times you say I’m a mother hen, it’s actually you.” 

“What can I say? Deflection and distraction works wonders.” Tony punched him lightly, pouting. He was damn handsome with a suit, but Steve preferred this: Tony Stark in sweats with mused hair, goatee needing trimming to keep the lines precise. “I’m a bad man, Steve, you should know that by now. Merchant of Death, they called me.” 

“I’m going to have a word with whoever coined that term and demand they retract it. You’re a sweetheart. A fluffy, gooey, feeling marshmallow. You can wear an iron suit, it can’t hide the fact that you’re a good man. Iron Man, a superhero.” 

Tony rolled his eyes, then checked Bucky’s vitals on the screen. “Stop saying that.”

“Why?” Steve turned to him, stepping closer. He wanted to put his hand on Tony’s shoulder, so he did. “It’s true. You’re a good man.” 

“Because I’ll believe it.” Tony snorted. “Sometimes it’s a dangerous thing to have hope.” 

“Well, I’ll say it everyday until you believe me.” 

Tony laughed, the sound deep and open. “Then you’ll have to say that for the rest of our lives.”

Steve liked the sound of that: the rest of their lives.

“Alright.”

“Alright?” Tony turned, eyeing the hand still on his shoulder. Steve squeeze it before stepping back. 

“Yeah, I’ll tell you everyday. Starting now.” Steve sat on the chair, pushing the other on with his foot so Tony could sit. “You’re a good man, Tony.”

* * *

“Steve.” Bucky dropped a hand on his shoulder. “You good?”

“Yeah, yeah.” He mumbled, sitting hiding his face on Morgan’s check. “Everything is fine.”

He breathed in and out, steadying himself. He needed to get his shit together. It was unacceptable to break down in front of his kid. It was Christmas; they were supposed to be happy. 

He inhaled deeply, releasing a sigh. Blinked once, twice, hoping his eyes weren’t red-rimmed. 

He kissed Morgan’s cheek. “Thank you, darling. You always know how to make me feel better.”

“That’s because I know you,” she said in the same tone Tony would use whenever he teased Steve.

 _Because I know what you like,_ Tony would wink at him.

“Yes, you do.” Steve kissed her forehead, hoping to communicate how much he appreciated her.

Peter and Harley were fourteen and twelve, respectively. Steve wondered how many more birthdays Tony would miss. Forty? Fifty? How many more Christmases would Steve spend without him? 

“Are you ready to do the presents?” Rhodes stood from his post and started to collect the rest of the dishes. “Carol really wants to give Morgan her present. You ready for that, Maguna?” 

Steve didn’t have the energy to tell them not to call his daughter Maguna. That was Tony’s nickname for Morgan. 

Steve missed Tony so much he didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t deal with the grief of returning to their bedroom, alone, in a house where everything screamed Tony. He wanted to burn this fucking place down. Never set foot on it again. 

Steve couldn’t comprehend how he’d never hold onto Tony's waist again or trace the scars from the arc reactor. He couldn’t bear making lunch when Tony wasn't sitting on his chair, a tablet in hand, Morgan on his lap. Peter and Harley trading barbed quips with him. 

“Rhodes, it’s fine. I’ll do that, don’t worry. I’ll clean up, thanks. Could you just—” he gestured at Morgan, sniffing. Steve turned to her, cataloguing all ways she looked like Tony. “Go get your brothers excited, we’ll open the presents soon.”

He stayed plastered on the chair a beat longer, then straightened his back. He waved Bucky’s concern away and gathered the dishes. He placed all the leftover food in containers and stacked the dirty plates on their deep porcelain sink. 

Steve turned on the water, testing the temperature with fingers. 

Birthdays were hard. But, it’s true, holidays were unbearable. 

Steve exhaled, willing his heart to calm down. He took the dirty dishes, ran them under the water, then began scrubbing. He liked the smell of lemon dish soap. Tony hated it; it reminded him too much of cleaners and bleach. He always scrunched his nose and begged off drying the dishes, insisting that he’d entertain the kids instead. Couldn’t Steve please just do the drying too? After Steve put the dishes away, his little family would be on the couch, all on top of each other, allured by Tony.

The world spun around him. 

“Fuck.”

He held the plate too hard. There was broken glass all over the stacks of dishes now. 

Natasha appeared beside him, observing the porcelain shatters in the sink. She peeked over his arm and took the sponge from his fingers. “It’s just a surface cut, it’ll heal in a few minutes.” 

He gave a snort, focusing on the blood oozing from his palm. Tony was anything but that—a resurface cut. Loss was more like a Jericho missile being dropped on Steve’s chest.

He put his palm under the water and watched it flow over his wedding ring. 

“I wish you could say the same thing about my life, Nat.” 

“Steve,” she choked out. Steve turned, catching her eyes both hard and filled with tears to the brim. “Move over, let me help you. Come on.”

He refused to budge. “I got it.”

“Steve. Let me. Let us—” She grabbed his shoulder and pushed him away from the sink. Natasha picked up the glass with delicate fingers, then deposited them to the bin. “It’d be easier if you used the dishwasher, you know.”

Steve stood beside her, learning against the counter. “I never did things that were easy. I’ll never learn.”

“Don’t do that.” 

“What?”

“Don’t make me cry when it’s Christmas.” She gave him a jagged grin. 

Steve returned her defeated smile, throwing an arm over her shoulder. 

“They say holidays are hard.”

 _They,_ meaning all the grieving books and articles he’s consulted. _They_ said that it was acceptable to cry. _They_ said that one should voice their concerns to family members, close friends, or even better, a therapist. _They_ said to join a support group, find people who understand. _Give yourself time. Take as long as you need._ Grieve. Cry. Let it out. It’s alright. Remember the good times, the happy moments with gratefulness rather than regret. _They_ provided advice, words of comfort. 

But Steve couldn’t register the platitudes. It felt like the end of the world.

The world fucking ended. 

Everyone died. People usually buried their parents. Steve borrowed money from an employer to pay for Sarah Roger's burial. It was life. The natural order of things. The worst part was that the world kept moving. It didn’t stop. It kept spinning. 

The gardens on their rooftop would continue to grow, then wither in the winter. He’d have to wake up tomorrow, get dressed and pretend to have his shit together.

Captain America was supposed to remain determined and assured. 

All Steve wanted to do was breakdown, climb into bed and never leave. 

“This is just one of many, Nat. I keep thinking about how this is just the first without him. There _will_ be more. Easter. Birthdays. Shit, even mundane things like Open House and parent-teacher conferences. Fucking parent-teacher conferences where I have to sit _alone_ and listen to my kids’ educational progress. Where Tony can’t be. Homecoming for Peter. Prom. All that shit, Nat. He’ll miss it. And—” Steve hiccuped, fists closed. He blinked, trying to center himself. He wasn’t going to break down today. He wasn’t. He couldn’t. It’s Christmas. No crying during the holidays. “And I miss him.” 

Natasha shut the faucet off and leaned against the countertop. Steve mimicked her posture.

“We can’t spend the rest of our lives chasing after ghosts.”

They stood side by side watching the rest of their team and family loiter around the penthouse. The Christmas tree was huge. Fresh. Purchased from a farm upstate. 

Steve wished they still had the one Tony picked out last year. But by late January, the tree dried and waned, drooping like a sad reminder that the holidays had passed. 

And along with it, Tony’s health.

“Well, if it was him haunting me, I’d never ask him to leave.”

“You never do things that are good for you, anyway.” 

“He was the one good part of me.” 

Natasha squeezed his bicep before opening the cupboard. She poured two fingers of vodka in Tony’s Captain America mug. After all these years, they still had it. 

“That’s not true.”

“Yes it is.”

* * *

Steve pushed past the agents milling around the medical bay, seething. Tony was reckless. Irresponsible. Fancied himself as a goddamn hero. It raked at Steve’s nerves. 

He bursted through the door, pushing it hard enough to pop a screw out and pull the taped Christmas tinsel from the door. “Why do you have to do that, Tony? You could have gotten seriously hurt!”

“Well, I never did things that were easy.” Tony grimaced, jutting his chin. 

“Understatement of the century.” Natasha said, wryly, pushing Tony’s head back to disinfect the cut on his face. 

“Tony.” Steve willed himself to calm down. There was no use in directing his anger at a man who’s already in the hospital. Still, Steve couldn’t help but feel annoyed. “You’re not supposed to make decisions like that without informing the team. You don’t leave without backup—”

“It was the right call, Cap.”

“Doesn’t matter if it’s the right call if it’ll cost your life.”

“Damn, didn’t know I mattered that much to you. Is my life worth more than theirs?”

Steve blanched. Did he ever make Tony feel like he didn’t matter? 

“Of course, you matter. You’re—important to the team.” Steve stumbled over the words, wishing he was the one sitting on Tony’s bed and pushing his hair back.

“Right.” Tony leaned back against Nat’s ministrations. He relaxed into her care. “Well, I’m fine now, so no worries, Cap.”

“Tony. That’s not.” Steve tried, moving closer to the bed. He dropped on the foot of the mattress. “I didn’t mean that, Shellhead.” 

“Tony, do you want some yogurt or jello?”

“Sure thing, sweet thing.” Tony winked. He laughed when Natasha raised an eyebrow. She glanced at Steve, unimpressed, and left without another word. 

“Hey.” Steve waved like an idiot. 

Tony waved back, chuckling. “Hi, Winghead.”

Even with a bruise forming under his eyes, Tony looked handsome and untouchable. Steve ached with something stupid.

“Tony. You’re important. Don’t think otherwise.” 

“The people we saved are important, too. I had to try.”

“I know.” Steve dipped his head, gathering his thoughts. Tony drove him insane. He was exuberant, full of energy, flying around the suit in circles. “You make me nervous.”

“Steve, I’m fine. Honestly, this is nothing.”

Steve didn’t believe him at all. Instead, he twisted and grabbed Tony’s chart attached to the bed frame. He reviewed the doctor’s assessments: concussion, sprained ankle, and two fractured ribs. 

It wasn’t bad. It could have been worse. Tony could have died. 

Steve sighed. Sometimes he wished he could just keep Tony chained in the workshop. Steve would fight all the battles himself if it meant keeping Tony safe. 

“You’ll have to recover. The doctor will need to sign you off before you go back to the field.”

“Steve! You can’t bench me.” Tony threw a hand up, annoyed. “Stop being so controlling! You’re such a pain in the ass, I swear to fuck. I told you, I’m fine. I’ll be good in a couple of days.”

“Tony. You’re not invincible.” Steve measured out. 

Tony’s eyebrows shot up. He leaned back, arms crossed over his chest. “Do you mean, I’m not like you?”

“No. No, Tony. I just mean. Fuck, I’m getting this all wrong.” Steve paused, rubbed the back of his neck. “Tony. I said you’re important to the team. But not just that. You’re important to me, Shellhead. Uh. Tony. I care about you. A lot. Seeing you hurt, I hurt, too. Don’t know if that makes sense. You hurt. I hurt. I don’t like seeing you in the hospital.”

Tony held his gaze. The fire in him seemed to evaporate. A surprised expression passed across his face and he seemed to decide something. “Steve.” He raised a hand, then set it back down.

“Hm?”

“Alright, Captain Handsome. I’ll be more careful. Just so you know, I am careful, Steve. That was a calculated risk. JARVIS informed me that the chances for survival were high. You don’t have to carry the world’s burden on your shoulder. If I fuck up in the field, that isn’t on you.”

Steve grimaced. He stood, pushed forward, and occupied Nat’s seat on the side of the bed. He reached over, slow, letting Tony stop him in case he didn’t want to be touched.

Tony eyed him with something Steve couldn’t define. Hope, maybe. 

He caressed Tony’s hair back, unhurried. Like they had all the time in the world. 

“I don’t have to leave your life up to chance, Tony.”

Tony protested when Steve removed his hand and pulled off. Tony grabbed his arm, setting it back over his head. “Comfort me, I’m helpless with a fractured rib.” 

“Brat.” Steve smiled. 

They stayed like that for a while. The sound of the machines lulling them. Eventually, Tony made room for Steve on the bed, but with all of his big bulkiness, Steve's body was hanging off the bed. 

It didn’t matter. He was beside Tony. Their shoulders touched. He could smell Tony’s hair—sweaty, bloody, with a touch of antiseptic. 

“Sometimes we don’t get a choice about our lives being up for chance, Steve.”

Steve had a choice. He’s tried not to leave his life up to chance. Asthma, heart problems, high blood pressure? Possibility of contracting diabetes? He couldn’t live with the chance of death following him like a shadow. Sure, he took a chance with Dr. Erskine but it was his choice. He stopped thinking about the what _if’s._

He had astigmatism growing up. But there's one thing he could see clearly: he cared about Tony Stark’s life, maybe more than his own. 

“No, that’s not true.” He took Tony’s hand, focusing on the beat of his heart. “We choose. We can always choose.”

Tony hummed, eyes closed like he’s on the edge of falling asleep. “I don’t know about that, Steve.”

“I’ll prove it to you, Shellhead.”

“Disproving a genius, good luck.” Tony smiled, plump red lips a contrast to his dark mustache. 

Steve was unharmed from the battle, but he ached all over. 

Later, he woke up, not even realizing that he fell asleep. Tony was tucked half on Steve’s shoulder, mouth open. Drooling. It should be disgusting, but his heart stuttered. Tony looked at peace, comfortable. Steve wished to put his arms around Tony. 

But he didn’t dare move. He counted each of Tony’s breaths, in sync with his own heartbeat.

The mission was a close call. Tony’s a hero. But he didn’t always have to act the part. When a huge chunk of building dropped on the Iron Man suit, it felt like watching Tony fall out of the sky again. 

They’ve had a good run as Avengers, an independent group of superheroes governed by their own mission and checked by the United Nations. Tony and Pepper handled all the bureaucracy, Steve didn’t really know the details. Tony handled it and Steve trusted his decisions. Together, the Avengers team drafted a set of guidelines which was then finalized as the Accords. 

Life was good—if he didn’t count facing doom and death at least once a week.

The Avengers fell into a semi-domestic pattern. The team trained together once a week. They debriefed missions and rewatched footage to improve their strategies in the field. The Compound felt like home.

Tony’s still trying to convince Rhodes to join the team. But so far, they had Sam Wilson, a friend from DC, joining them for aerial support. Bucky was recently cleared to join the team.

While Thor was in another dimension, the team had Bruce Banner as a heavy-hitter in the roster. They’re still building up the Avengers, but thus far, Steve was happy. 

He could be happy. What a thought.

With a careful finger, Steve traced the lines on Tony’s face and his long eyelashes. 

Tony snored, moving around in his sleep. Steve’s always been a selfish man. Captain America would sacrifice his life for what was right, but Steve Rogers would risk losing a limb to hold Tony in his arms. He shifted forward gingerly, putting an arm around Tony’s shoulder and pressing in closer to the bed. 

He could be brave, too.

Steve turned, seeing the snow fall in the window. There was a snow storm during the battle. But Iron Man’s suit shone bright against all the white—ruby reds and beaming yellows. 

“Merry Christmas, Tony,” Steve whispered, closing his eyes and tucking his head further into the pillows.

* * *

It was time to open the presents. Steve couldn’t postpone it any longer, so he squared his shoulders and turned to Natasha. She’s nursing her second glass of vodka. 

“You ready?”

The kids were getting restless.

Morgan was sitting on Carol’s lap getting her hair braided. No matter how many times Steve tried to get the dutch braids right, it always turned into a mess. Tony had been better at it.

Harley and Peter were chatting with the Bartons by the fireplace, faces animated. Steve picked up a few scientific words which just went over his head.

Natasha bumped his shoulders like she used to when they were getting ready for battle. Maybe Steve was preparing for war. It seemed like every day was a fight to live. 

Bucky appeared beside her and gave her a kiss, then patted Steve good-naturedly with his metal arm.

Steve stared at the arm every time he saw Bucky, heart aching that his best friend wore something Tony made. Logically, the rest of the world has the memory of Tony Stark—their StarkPads, their phones, in green energy, in medical tech. The list was endless. He's immortalized in history books as Iron Man, but also as Tony Stark, genius, philanthropist, billionaire. Husband of Steve Rogers. Father of three kids.

Steve settled on the rug by the massive Christmas tree. It smelled sharp, refreshing, almost tender. He hurt all over. Holidays punched all the tender parts of him.

The serum was supposed to heal him, yet there’s a gaping hole in his chest. He kept bleeding all over; the wound didn’t scab over. 

Steve didn’t let it heal. He picked at it in the evenings in bed, turning over memories that refused to fade away. That’s one thing he was grateful for—eidetic memory. Tony may be memorialized in books, essays, and street art, but there were memories that belonged just to Steve. Like the way Tony woke up in the morning and how he turned his wedding band when he was thinking.

Steve looked down at his left hand. The multicolored Christmas lights flicker on the vibranium ring. He cleared his throat, nodding over at Bucky and Natasha sitting on the loveseat across from him. 

It’s the first Christmas. It was bound to be hard. Steve could survive this. There were more holidays to come, he’d have to get used to sitting under the tree and distributing presents alone. 

“Let me start, Steve. I’ve got my goddaughter all excited during dinner and she’ll probably burst if I don’t give her my present now.” Carol grinned at Morgan, offering her a slim box.

“Wow.” Morgan ripped the wrapping and started at the necklace in awe. She held it up for them and they all chimed happy sounds. 

It was a small ruby stone, the size of a penny. 

“It’s a gem from Hala,” Carol explained, putting the necklace on Morgan. 

“Reminds me of dad.” Morgan fingered the stone, letting it flash red against the fluorescence of the light. 

His children always floored him with simple words and casual mentions of Tony. Steve swallowed, wishing he could get up and excuse himself. 

Rhodes hummed, ruffling her hair. His face was grim, but he smiled at her. “Looks very pretty on you.” 

“Thank you, Honeybear.” She kissed his cheek, parroting Tony’s nickname for Rhodes easily. 

Natasha leaned forward offering Morgan a large box wrapped in cartoon reindeers. “So I guess Morgan’s gonna get all her presents first. Here you go, my dear, from me and Uncle Bucky.”

“Can I go next, Aunt Nat?” Harley said. “Morgan always goes first.”

“That’s because she’s the youngest,” Bucky replied, flicking Harley’s ear. They got into a playful tussle that only stopped once Bucky threatened to make Harley sit on his lap.

“I’m too old for that, I’m a pre-teen now!”

Clint rolled his eyes. “Yeah, you just turned twelve last month. You’re barely anything, kid.”

“Ok, back to my presents now!” Morgan held out the box calling their attention. Since she was the youngest, everyone in the family spoiled her rotten as if she didn’t have Tony and Steve trained. 

She opened the box and looked at the set of knives. She’s been eyeing Natasha’s collection and begged Steve for them. He and Tony have long accepted that their kids were never gonna be average, no matter how much they tried to raise them as normal as possible considering that their parents were Iron Man and Captain America and their godparents were a set of assassins and superheroes themselves. 

Pepper was the only civilian, but even then, she was scary efficient for a human being. 

“It’s just for show, right dad? Not to use?” She turned to Steve, eyebrows raised. 

He nodded with a short laugh, knowing that Natasha was going to teach her how to use them someday.

Morgan received her presents from the Bartons and the Langs. Then from Steve, a set of professional paints and a large canvas. She thanked him with a grin and a promise to paint on the terrace tomorrow. 

The rooftop garden needed work. Steve should clean it up, tend the garden back into something comforting, rather than letting it fester as a grave. 

Steve waved his son over, holding the box over. “Alright, Harley, come get your presents.”

Harley laughed, ducked Peter’s light punches, then sat beside Steve. He wiggled his fingers eagerly, then stopped once he read the tag on the upper left side of the box. 

He frowned, before his eyes flashed to Steve. “From _Dad and Papa?_ ” He read outloud, cheeks turning red. “Is he serious?” Harley turned to Peter, then Natasha before glaring at Steve. “You’re kidding right?”

Bucky padded over, settling a hand on Harley’s shoulder. “Hey, don’t talk to your dad like that.”

The thing that Harley inherited from Tony was his denial of feelings until the moment he exploded. No, that’s probably wrong. He’s more like Steve in that case.

Steve reached for his son’s wrist, wishing he was still small enough to accept being coddled and rocked on his father’s arms. But lately, Harley’s been rejecting his touches and moving away from him. 

He was always closer to Tony. They all were. Fucking hell, kids were a struggle. 

“No, why would I be?” Steve said.

“Because my father is dead.” He spat out, pushing away from Steve. “So why is this from _Dad and Papa?_ I don’t…” Harley was fuming now, hot tears spilling from his face before he stood up, shrugging Bucky’s hand off. “Why do you have to do that, pops?”

“Fuck, Harley, stop being a dick,” Peter whispered harshly, surprising them all. 

He was always level-headed, patient with his younger siblings to a fault. Goofy, always grinning. 

But not lately.

Now, Peter’s eyes were stormy. His fists were balled like he’s holding the remains of tattered patience. “Don’t talk to him like that.” 

“It seems like you all moved on and I’m the only one—God, Pops is pretending that dad is still here. He wrote _from Dad and Papa._ What—” Harley scrubbed his eyes, kicked his feet petulant. “He wasn’t even here to pick this for me!”

“I haven’t moved on,” Peter said, pushing past Natasha’s hold before standing over where Steve and Harley sat on the floor. 

“Alright, fine. But when Pops acts like this.” Harley waved the box. “I just—I don’t—I don’t understand. He didn’t even pick this out. He wasn’t even here to choose this for me.” He shoved the box back, hitting Steve’s knee. 

Steve held his breath. Everyday was like standing at the end of a cliff and waiting to fall. “He gave me a list of ideas for the next few Christmases, honey. He picked that one out last year—before—” Steve choked, then shook his head, annoyed his voice was failing him. The team was here to see Steve lose it. He didn’t want to look up and see the pity in their faces. Fuck. He focused on Harley, ignoring the twist in his gut.

Steve felt around for his pocket, holding the note in Tony’s handwriting, letting it ground him. Peter and Harley stared at him, twin expressions pained. Steve’s eyes stung and he wiped at them. His friends and family had seen him cry over the past year. It wasn’t gonna stop anytime soon.

“He had some ideas about what you all might like.” Steve didn’t want to open up the sheet and stare at Tony’s scrawl. No, he’d do that later. “He helped—he did—he helped pick out—”

Harley made a sound of protest, then, he searched Steve’s eyes—for what, Steve didn’t know. Approval, deference, maybe. Then, like he’s still seven, pressed himself to Steve’s chest, dropping his head. 

“I’m sorry, pops. It’s just. It’s hard.” 

“It’s alright.” Steve scrubbed at his thick, dirty blond locks. He tried to smile at his friends. They all nodded understanding, eyes in sympathy. Steve wanted to crawl to the ground. Six feet under and stay there.

“Alright, pops,” Harley replied, pulling away to look at Steve. His eyes were a pale blue, like Steve’s. Sometimes he liked to think that Harley inherited the hue from him, even if they didn’t share the same blood. He opened the box and took the tag off. He placed it to the side after a beat, then nodded to Steve. “Thanks, dad, I guess. I’m—” 

“It’s okay, it’s alright, son. I understand.” Steve ruffled his hair, willing his face to stay still, to not crumble. He didn’t succeed. He bit the inside of his cheeks, drawing blood. “You’re welcome, kid. From both of us.”

Harley quirked his lip, a fleeting smile that’s barely there at all. “Yeah. Sure.”

* * *

It should have been harder to fall in love with Tony Stark. They’re two men with fucked up pasts, veterans of violence and war, tainted by the cynicism of corrupt governments. 

And yet, here’s Tony Stark walking beside Steve Rogers around the city. Their shoulders brushed as the crowd pushed them closer. Steve wanted to lace their fingers. 

The sun was up high, bearing down their scalps. A hot summer in New York. They just finished viewing an exhibit from the MET. Tony gave running commentary on an exhibit and promised to show Steve his collection. 

“Hey, Tony.”

“Yeah?” 

“Nothing.” Steve grinned, ducking his head. He was glad for their off days from Avengers assignments. Tony just returned the previous evening from a trip to Singapore with Pepper. They had SI business regarding new tech and green energy.

Steve missed his presence this past week and a half. Tony’s absence made him realize that he scheduled so much of his time around Tony. 

Natasha caught him moping in the Compound’s communal area and teased him for hours.

“You’re so weird. Jesus, whoever said you were charming obviously didn’t see you like this.” Tony pointed at Steve before making a sharp left to the entrance of Central Park. 

Their ice cream cones were melting. Vanilla and chocolate dripped into their fingertips.

Tony found a park bench and they sat side by side, shoulder to shoulder, even though they had no reason to be so close to each other. Steve didn’t complain. 

Instead, he licked his ice cream cone, eyes averting from Tony’s profile. 

It’s been happening more and more lately. He couldn’t stop looking at Tony. Sometimes he caught himself tracing the slope of his nose, the lines on his eyes, the curve of his smile. For the most part, Steve has stopped trying to turn away. But today, under the daylight in a hot New York summer with millions of people around them—Steve didn’t think he could keep his face neutral. 

But he’s a weak man. He took the final bite from the icecream cone, lips sticky, then turned to Tony. 

“So, you missed something while you were away on business.”

“Me? Never. J always keeps me updated on anything important.” Tony gave his ice cream cone little cat licks, eyes steady on Steve. 

Steve felt a little warm under the sun. 

“Well, it’s not really important. But uh,” he scratched his head, spotting a crow hopping on near their feet. “Nat and Bucky are dating, I guess.”

“Oh my god, Steve. They’ve been fucking for months now.” Tony barked a laugh, eyes dancing. Steve was glad he wasn’t wearing his sunglasses. Tony looked immaculate in those Tom Fords. But Steve loved seeing the brown of his eyes, the speck of green in his irises. They were wide and expressive. 

He’s tried drawing them over and over, but he couldn’t capture its brightness on paper.

“Oh,” he said, not really concerned about Bucky or Natasha. 

Tony’s smiling so wide that his gums were showing. “Yeah. You didn’t know? It’s so obvious! He’s always following her around even though he pretends not to. She’s always got her eyes on him even though she acts like she’s just inspecting him for weapons. So obvious.” Tony popped the end of the ice cream cone in his awaiting mouth.

They were so plump and red, glistening with salvia. 

Was Steve that obvious? Did Tony know? 

Steve cleared his throat, looking at the crow prancing around in the corner of his eyes. They’ve been working together as Avengers for a year and a half now. They’ve built the Compound together, brick by brick. Streamlined the potential new Avengers into the program by offering training and applications to interested superheroes. 

Tony’s mentoring a couple of kids like Miles Morales and Kamala Khan, offering them tips and advice. But mostly, Steve’s witnessed Tony chew his lips in worry for the two kids. Being a parent seemed hard.

Missions were going well. They haven’t had a mission as catastrophic as the Chitauri. Most missions were espionage which was more of Bucky and Natasha’s specialty. Sometimes they grudgingly worked with SHIELD on international issues. Other times, they offered their services and power for assisting with natural disasters and humanitarian efforts like hurricanes or earthquakes. Tony threw money on rebuilding cities with green energy, but he also helped on with on-site clean up as Iron Man. Sometimes they had the basic, local villain like Doom or Osborn.

In short, life seemed too easy. It’s as if Steve could have anything he wanted. 

“Steve—” 

He blinked, whipping his head back to Tony’s eyes. He didn’t even know he was staring at Tony’s lips. He could watch the man talk for hours and not hear anything he said. 

“Sorry, what was that?”

“I said,” Tony heaved a sigh, wide-eyed but calculating. He twisted his body and leaned closer to Steve. “Feel free to say no and tell me I’ve misread this. Everything will be fine. We’ll still be friends, teammates, lead Avengers together—”

Steve’s heart skipped. He swallowed down the flicker of anxiety. “Tony—”

“But we’ve done so much good these last few months. Life’s alright. Shit.” Tony wiped his forehead, laughing. “What I’m trying to say—what I mean—you’re a good friend. One of my best friends, really. You’re important to me. But I’m a selfish bastard and I always want more. Not saying I’m not satisfied with what we have. You're wonderful. Amazing. I’m happy with that, really. But uh, I can’t deny that I want more. So, if you’re interested. It’s there. I’m offering.”

“What are you offering?” Steve started at the red tint on Tony’s cheeks. Tony was blushing because of him.

“A date, or—” Tony bit his lips, looking at Steve with conflicting emotions. One moment, Tony’s eyes flicked down to his lips, then the next, he’s looking at Steve with pained nervousness. “Whatever you want. Whatever you want to give me.”

“Jesus, Tony.” Steve swayed closer. He didn’t even feel this apprehensive when getting the serum. At this moment, he stood at the edge of a precipice, shocked with hope and yearning.

“No, Steve, forget I even said anything—”

“No,” he called out, his voice shaky and reverent to his own ears. 

“Steve, seriously, it’s fine—”

“Anything. Everything. I’ll give you whatever you want. You can have it all. I’ll give everything you want.”

Tony eyebrows raised high, almost comically. Then, a wide grin spread from his face. It’s like feeling the sun and its warmth again for the first time since going under ice. “Really? Are you—”

“I like you very much.” Steve emphasized each word. “If it wasn’t obvious.”

“Christ. You don’t have to sound so earnest about it.” Tony laughed, patting Steve’s thigh. Steve felt the heat of Tony’s hands all the way to his belly. 

“Can I hold your hand?”

“You’re gonna kill me, aren’t you?” Tony smirked, moving closer to Steve. “Yes, you have permission to hold my hand. You don’t ever have to ask from now on.”

Steve laced their fingers together, keeping them on his thigh. He can do that now. “Can I kiss you?”

Tony dropped his head on Steve’s chest, body shaking in laughter. “You don’t have to ask, baby.” He looked amused. “I really hope you’re not planning to take it slow with me. Because, Rogers, I gotta admit, I’ve been crushing on you for months. If you’re planning to woo me and take me to bed weeks from now, I might actually explode.”

Steve chuckled, light and dirty. He felt it all the way from the pit of his belly to his toes.

“Fine.” Steve dropped a peck on Tony’s waiting lips. “Can I fuck you later? In that big mattress of yours? Or maybe suck you off while you tinker in the workshop? Will that do?”

“Fuck, yes. Can’t wait to ride you, big guy. Ugh. I bet you're big.”

“So we’re going steady, huh?” 

“Well, I can confirm that the team already thinks we’re fucking and secretly married at this point.” Tony wrapped an arm around his shoulder and pulled him for a wet kiss. 

“Really?”

“Steve, you practically live in my workshop. We fall asleep together on the couch all the time. You sit next to me at every meal, during debriefs. You hold the door open for me and you’re always staring at me.”

“You noticed that?” Steve blushed, picking up their interlaced fingers and kissing it. “I thought I was being subtle.”

“I got tired of waiting for you to make a move. So, as one innovative, genius, billionaire, reformed playboy once said, I know exactly what I'm doing.”

“And what are you doing, exactly?” Steve dropped another kiss, this time on Tony’s nose. He smiled, giddy and drunk with love. 

“Wooing you. Hoping like hell you’d fall in love with me.”

“Darling, you don’t have to hope.” 

Tony exhaled. His Adam's apple bobbed. Then suddenly, he laughed. Steve’s a little proud of that predictable line. Tony’s smiling as he pressed their lips together. 

One kiss, two kisses. Then, three slow kisses that turned deeper and heated as Tony licks Steve’s mouth open. Their tongues slid together in leisure, not a care in the world that they’re making out on a bench in Central Park.

People noticed them, then moved on. They’re just two men who’ve drifted through life and somehow found each other. Steve pulled Tony to his chest. He won’t let go. This was the first of many kisses.

* * *

Tony was really annoying. He insisted on hiring cleaners for their brownstone in the city. Steve, who was raised to pick up after his own messes, refused. He firmly believed that washing dishes was soothing. It just had to be done. It took only a few minutes. 

Loading the laundry machine took two minutes, tops. But Tony couldn’t be bothered to separate his clothes by color. In the future, all one had to do was dump their basket into a machine, fill it with soap, and press a button. Back in the day, they had to use washboards and mangles, then scrub like crazy. 

Tony refused to do laundry. He’d kiss Steve all over and offer him a blowjob just to get out of chores.

“You know, we could hire a cleaner. They’d come everyday. You wouldn’t have to bend over the tub to get the soap scum off.” Tony hummed, rubbing Steve’s chest. “Wait, nevermind, I like you bending over.”

“It’s the principle of the thing, Tony.” 

Steve kissed him back anyway.

It would be easier to just let Tony hire the cleaners. But there was something about sweeping his own floor and replacing his own bed sheets that just screamed home to Steve. 

They still had their respective rooms in the Compound. But Tony had to go to the city at least twice a week for SI. Steve thought it would be nice to spend their off days in Manhattan. Be with the city’s grime and bustle.

He suggested they get a place together—not the Tower, which was attached to SI and the business world, but something that belonged to them. Steve wanted a place they’d build together. 

The brownstone was located in the upper east side, near the Guggenheim. It was a renovated building from the 19th century, with a terrace on the ground floor, a spacious cellar, and four bedrooms on the top two floors. The rooftop was dreamy, but the best part of the entire house was the open space kitchen. He could picture them having the Avengers over for dinner. Tony will play mother hen and set the table while Steve popped open the wine. It’s too much space for just the two of them, but they didn’t say anything once Pepper handed them the paperwork. 

It was as if they both already knew they’d fill up the rooms. 

Maybe it was wishful thinking, but he hoped to paint clouds in at least one of the rooms. Or maybe a swirling galaxy. A kid would love that. 

Steve was planning to build a deck and an urban garden on the rooftop.

Steve shoved the gardening supplies in a corner then entered their new home. Tony was asleep on the leather sofa, hand hanging loose on his stomach. The StarkPad was propped up his thigh. Steve's heart stuttered. Steve couldn’t believe this man chose to be with him—out of all the people Tony could have, he's with Steve. 

They needed to unpack. Tony said they could hire movers, but Steve wanted the whole moving in together experience—choosing the decor together, selecting which cabinet to put the dishes in, and arguing about where they should place the two plush chairs. Should it be by the fireplace or by the windows?

Steve settled on the floor and kissed Tony awake. He tipped Tony’s chin and licked his lips open.

“Hmm. My favorite way to wake up.” Tony opened his arms, gesturing for Steve to settle on top of him. “I love this, Steve. I love how we’re making this home. Thank you.” Tony blinked sleepily, likely still on the edges of his dream. 

Steve boxed Tony’s face with his arms and stared at him. He’s so in love it hurts.

It wasn't just this house. He felt at peace with Tony. The light streams from the window making shadows dance from the tree-lined streets. “You gave me a home. Somewhere I belong. I love you for that.”

“Well, why don’t you show me how grateful you are?” Tony smirked, rocking his hips against Steve’s as they kissed.

Steve opened his mouth, letting Tony’s tongue slip in. The kiss turned rough, wet, and playful only the way in which Tony could accomplish. He laughed as Steve pushed away the vest and tore off a button from his dress shirt.

“This is so impractical, Tony.” Steve caught another button into his mouth, opening it with his teeth, revealing Tony’s chest. “Wearing a dress shirt as we move?”

“Well, baby. You did all the heavy lifting, all that was left for me to do was stand there, look good, and watch your ass and biceps flex as you carry the boxes in.” Tony pulled hard on Steve’s hair, shoving him further down to his belly. 

Getting to the last button, Steve leaned away to admire Tony’s flushed face and heaving chest. Steve traced the scarring on Tony’s sternum with a finger tip. 

His fingers follow the circular pattern of the arc reactor, then the spidery lines on its edges. It looked like the sun—and if that wasn’t a perfect metaphor for how Steve orbited around Tony.

His man was so strong, not just in the face of an alien or a villain, but when they encountered adversity, Steve always looked to Tony for guidance.

He wouldn’t be as well adjusted to all the violence that comes with being an Avenger without Tony by his side. 

Tony reached up to twist Steve’s nipples. “You’re thinking too much. Stop. We’re supposed to be fucking.” 

“Tony.” Steve laughed, batting Tony’s hands away from his chest. He grabbed them both and pressed them above Tony’s head. “Fine, if that’s how you want to do it. Don’t move.”

“Yes, sir.” Tony’s gaze went soft, like sex was something tender even if it was anything but soft when Steve was pounding into him.

Steve smiled. “Good.” He inched further away, Steve sat between Tony’s legs and arranged Tony to plant his feet on the sofa cushions. “Be good.”

Tony looked so perfect under him, all pliant but full of spitfire, like a cat, screeching its paws and begging to be petted. Steve pressed the heel of his hand over the tent in his pants, assuaging himself for a moment, before zipping Tony’s fly down.

He pulled Tony’s ass-fitting trousers down, a little tempted to just rip his pants off. 

“These are Armani, Steve.” 

“You’re rich, you can buy another, sweetheart.” Steve took his shirt off and threw it over his shoulders. His jeans and boxers soon followed. 

“I swear, I’ll go bankrupt if you keep ripping my clothes off me.”

“Well, you look good with it discarded.” Steve bent down to kiss Tony’ chest, then grabbed Tony’s cock. He set a slow pace with loose fists, watching the pleasure on Tony’s face.

He twisted his hand on the head, squeezing slightly to draw out a moan from Tony. For all the times they’ve fucked, Steve will never get tired of hearing him beg. Steve scooted down and pulled the trousers to Tony’s knees. He kissed them both, trailed kisses up his thighs, then swallowed Tony’s dick. He flattened his tongue and sucked, eyes on Tony the entire time.

Steve ignored his throbbing dick. Instead, he pressed a finger to Tony’s open mouth. Tony grabbed his wrists, sucking and lathering Steve’s fingers with spit. He drew his hand back to press wet fingers on Tony’s hole. He lifted Tony’s thighs up to stare at the winking hole. He still had Steve’s come from earlier caking the rim. 

Steve groaned, jacking Tony off. He was a dirty bastard. He circled the rim, before pressing a finger in. He pumped it in and out, using his other hand to fondle with Tony’s cock head. 

“Steve, baby, more.”

“I exist just to please you, do I?”

“Yes, you do, baby.” Tony nodded, tilting his ass up like an invitation. Steve, weak for this man, removed the hand on Tony’s dick and used it to tilt his thighs higher. He dropped down, shoving his face to Tony’s ass and began licking his hole. He alternated between fingering him and fucking Tony with his tongue. His chin was wet with saliva and the taste of Tony. 

Tony pulled at his hair, demanding, “Fuck me, Steve, come on.”

Steve resurfaced, looking up around the mess of their living room. There were moving boxes everywhere, several canvases stacked by the wall, and take-out cartons in the half assembled kitchen table. 

“Where’s the lube?” 

“In one of the boxes? I don’t know, I can’t think, don’t ask me. Fuck me. Now.” 

Steve examined Tony’s messy hole. It gleaned with Steve’s spit. “You think you can take me without it? Are you still loose from this morning, sweetheart?”

“Yes, please, yes. Stretch me open, please.” Tony groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes. “Steve, come on please. I think I’m still full of your come, I’ll be fine. Fuck me, come on.” 

Steve pressed the head of his dick in and pulled back. He sighed; he didn’t want to hurt Tony. He scanned the room for anything that they might use as lube and gave up. He cupped a hand under his chin and spit, hard. 

He gave the hand to Tony who eyed it with a flirty grin. He paused for a moment before slobbering over Steve’s cupped hand. “Captain America is such a bastard.” 

“Well, you ruined me, Tony. What will the press say about that?” 

“For anyone else, yeah. That’s right. Mine, mine, mine.” Tony wrapped a leg over Steve’s waist and kicked lightly. “Now do your job and fuck me good. Like it’s your goddamn job, Cap.”

Steve laughed and slicked his aching dick with both of their spit. Then, for good measure, he fingered Tony again, pumping in and out, hard. 

“I’m good, I’m good.”

Steve pressed forward, pushing inside. He didn’t stop until he was fully seated. Then like being in the battlefield, they worked together. Tony pushed out, squeezing his hole as Steve pulled away. 

There was no other sound in the room except their moans and skin slapping against each other. “Ugh, baby, I love when you're so deep inside.” 

Tony wiggled forward, grabbing Steve’s neck and pulling him down for a kiss. 

Steve shoved a hand between them. Their bodies were sticky with sweat. He grabbed Tony’s cock, scratching at the wiry hairs framing his shaft before jerking him quickly. 

“Steve, ugh, fuck me harder.” 

Using his other hand, Steve grabbed Tony’s ass and lifted them both up into a sitting position. Steve planted his feet to the floor and used the leverage to fuck deeper into Tony. 

Tony crashed their mouths together, fucking his dick in Steve’s closed fists.

“I’m coming, fuck, Tony.” Steve thrusted twice, trying to suppress his orgasm. “You first, come for me.” 

“No, no, you come first.” He doubled his effort on working Tony's cock until he was shuddering. “Come, sweetheart. Come on me.” 

Steve moved again, pushing his hips up as Tony grounded down. Panting, Steve pulled at Tony’s dick until he came with a loud moan. Tony grabbed his come from Steve’s stomach and brought it to his mouth, sucking and cooing at the taste.

Steve forced his eyes open as he hammered into Tony. He watched Tony’s fingertips escape from his fucked out mouth. Steve came with a groan and dropped his head to the sofa cushions.

“Oh, fuck.” Tony cuddled closer, resting his head on Steve’s shoulders. “We got one room down for the housing warming party. Next time, I want the bed, Rogers, so you better set up the bed frame after this.”

“You’re such a demanding little brat.”

“You love it.”

“I do.” Steve kissed Tony’s cheek. “I’ll get right on that, sir.”

“You’re the perfect boyfriend, man.” Tony petted his hair. “I mean, Captain America is the perfect specimen, peak human perfection and all, but you, you, you, Steve. You’re my perfect person. My person.”

Steve kissed his collarbone, blissed out from coming. But one thought rang loud and clear: he wants to be the perfect husband, too.

* * *

“You remember the first time we kissed?”

Tony made a face and looked around the park. “Wasn’t it on this very bench?” 

Tony dropped on it with a lazy grin. He sat back on the seat with open arms.

“Er, yeah.” Steve bent down, getting to his knees, ducking his head to stop from laughing.

“Wait, are you fucking serious right now?”

“Huh?” Steve looked at him with false confusion. He gestured to his shoes and began double knotting the already tied laces.

Tony squawked with a blush. He looked at Steve, then away. “Nothing. Nada. Forget it.”

Steve laughed with glee. Tony was so cute when he blushed. 

He stayed with one knee planted on the concrete. “You told me that the team thought we were secretly married.”

“Did I?”

“Yeah, you did.”

“Hmm, I guess.” Tony was still flustered, eyes darting all over the park. “I mean, with the way you were following me around like a puppy, you were borderline obsessed.”

“Tony, look at me for a minute.” Steve pulled the box from his pocket. With a laugh, he presented the ring to Tony. “How about we make that statement true?”

Maybe he should have planned something more grand. A trip to Paris where he could propose on the Eiffel Tower or while drifting down the Nile. But Steve never fancied himself romantic. He loved Tony everyday, that’s all that mattered. Simple.

“How about we don’t keep it a secret? I want to tell the world that you're taking my last name.” Tony smiled so wide, his eyes were crinkled. He laughed and pulled Steve up for a kiss. 

Steve gave as good as he got then leaned away momentarily to place the vibranium ring on Tony’s finger. He had to make a risky bet with T’Challa to get the material, but it was worth it. 

“We’ll hyphenate. I want my last name next to yours.” 

“Alright. Stark-Rogers. Rogers-Stark, whichever.”

* * *

The Iron Man suit dropped on the Compound’s rooftop. “Hey, so.” Tony’s faceplate was up, revealing the sweat dripping from his temples. 

They just finished a short mission in Connecticut and were happy-drunk from victory. Not every mission was successful and those were the worst, especially when Tony would lock himself in the Compound’s workshop. Bad days were far and between. But maybe that’s just because Steve was happy. Married, loving life. 

“Hmm.” Steve rushed over, walking to meet Tony halfway. He tilted Tony’s chin up, smacking a loud kiss on his cupid bow. “You were great up there, Shellhead.”

“Flatterer. How do you feel about kids?” 

“You’re finally ready to settle down, Mr. Stark?” Steve pressed another kiss, this time, on the bruise forming under Tony’s eye. 

“That’s Rogers-Stark to you,” Tony pinched Steve’s side with a mock-glare. “I’ve settled down long ago, baby, with this gorgeous man named Steve.” 

“Hmm, does your husband know you flirt around with strangers and kiss them on rooftops?”

“Just with my co-workers.” Tony winked, walking down the Compound’s landing pad. The suit eased off his body and flew to their stations inside the workshop leaving Tony in his undersuit.

Steve looked up and down his body, appreciating Tony’s defined shoulders, his strong biceps, and the lazy, charming grin on his face. His hair was a mess. It was perfect. 

“Well, if we bring kids in the picture, I’m not sure how long we can keep at this superhero gig.”

“Retirement? Pass on the torch to the newbies and all that jazz? Serve as a mentor.”

“You sure you could keep away from the field?”

Tony shook his head. “No. Can you?”

“We can try.” There’s no doubt that they’d both get pulled into missions and wouldn’t be able to resist. 

“But maybe having children will change that. Can’t roll the dice on that one.” Tony wrapped an arm around Steve’s waist and pulled him. “Whaddya say, baby? Let’s have an actual baby. You know, the one that cries for you in the middle of the night. One, two, three. How ever much you want.”

“Tony, you cry for me in the middle of the night.” Steve laughed, wrapping both hands on Tony’s shoulders. He pressed their foreheads together, breathing in the smell of sweat, blood, and metal.

“Head out of the gutter, Steve.”

“You know, you’re acting like babies are something we can order online.” Steve grinned, dropping his forehead to Tony’s. It was sweaty from the suit and smelled like dust. “I’m assuming that unless you figure out a way to get one of us pregnant biologically, we’d adopt or get a surrogate?” 

“That’s the plan, baby. Don’t act like you aren’t dying to paint the extra bedrooms. Hmm, blue’s a nice color. Like your eyes.”

“Who’s the flatter now?”

“You love it.” 

“I do, and I love you.” 

“Make space in that big heart of yours to love another human being.” Tony pulled Steve into the building. They made their way into the showers, stripping efficiently and washing the grime from their bodies. 

Sam and Bucky wanted to murder them both for fucking in the communal showers. But, well, Tony funded the Compound, so every time they threatened them both, Tony would just laugh cheekily and make out with Steve in front of them. 

“I really do think you’ll love it. Being a father.” Tony turned the shower knobs and ducked his hair under the waters. He grabbed the soap and passed it to Steve without a word.

“I will. I know you will too.” Steve lathered up Tony’s back and kissed his neck. “I can’t wait to spend the rest of our lives raising children.”

“So that’s a yes, huh?”

“You don’t have to convince me.” Steve pressed his erection forward, letting the slick of the soap from Tony’s body guide his dick between Tony’s cheeks.

Tony’s still loose from this morning. Steve dipped a finger, then two, pumping it in and out of Tony. The water continued to wash over them, scalding hot, the way they both liked it. Tony leaned against the shower tiles, tilting his ass up in invitation.

Steve, impatient and hard ever since Tony landed on the roof and took his face plate off, removed his fingers and shoved in.

“Fuck, fuck, Steve.” 

Steve stayed still, grinning as Tony began whining and fucking himself on Steve’s cock. He placed both hands on Tony’s hips and began thrusting in and out. When their movements turned manic, Steve grabbed Tony’s dick and pumped its shaft until they both came. 

“I bet Sam and Bucky are outside waiting to throw a fit.” Tony grabbed some fresh towels from the shelves and passed one to Steve. 

They dried themselves, chatting idly about the mission. Steve wrapped a towel on his hips, admiring Tony’s fucked out expression. 

They spent the week talking, discussing whether they want to adopt or get a surrogate. There were many orphans in the world looking for a home. But selfishly, Steve insisted on surrogacy. He wanted to look at their children and see Tony’s features in their faces.

He couldn’t serve as the surrogate because of the serum. Bruce Banner said something about possible mutations in his genes. But that’s alright, their kids would biologically be half-Tony, and they’ll nurture them into the Rogers-Stark household. 

Steve was high with giddiness when they met the surrogate a few weeks later. They screened all potential candidates and made the selected surrogate sign an iron-cladded NDA and paid her a hefty sum.

Once the doctors announced that the egg and sperm clicked, the next nine months were a whirlwind of anxiety and excitement.

While Steve was oscillating from nervousness and wanting to jump out of a building because he was so fucking happy, Tony was inconsolable. He wanted the entire brownstone baby-proofed. This wasn’t a difficult task considering they had the bots put guards on the windows and the kitchen area. They were probably overreacting, but it was so much fun teasing each other into making sure they both closed all the cabinets. Tony finally took his loafers from the entryway and put his shoes in the closet.

All in all, they spent the last few months holding their breaths until the baby—Peter Benjamin Rogers-Stark—was born.

The room on the top floor was painted in a mix of stars (Steve’s suggestion) and equations (Tony’s insistence) and adorned in too many toys for a newborn baby. 

In the first week of August, they received a call from the surrogate, May Parker, and headed to the hospital. They brought Peter home after a two day stay at the hospital, fretting over Peter’s health.

Their entire world was 6.8 pounds and could be held in the palm of their hands. 

They spent the entire day staring at Peter in awe. Everytime he blinked, Steve and Tony looked at each other and said, “Did you see that? So cute.”

“He has your eyes, Tony.”

“God, they never told me babies poop so much.” Tony snorted, holding up two diapers and waving it around the room. “And, you could barely tell. Babies are just this pudgy mess of limbs and poop.” 

Steve shook his head, running a large finger over Peter’s cheek. “Yeah, but I can already tell he has your eyes. He’s yours.”

“Ours, baby.” Tony lifted Peter from the crib, rocking him side to side. “Do you want to hold him?”

“In a bit. I like watching you with him. You, together.” Steve sat down on the rocking chair in the corner, listening to Tony hum a song. 

Outside, New York kept turning, but here was Steve’s entire world in a single room.

He itched for charcoal and a piece of paper to draw the father and son. Instead, Steve grabbed the manila folder with Peter’s birth certificate. “Yes, he’s ours.”

“And we have the certificate to prove it!” Tony spun them around the room, once, twice, before settling on a slow rock on the balls of his feet.

Here’s the start of their little family.

_Peter Benjamin Rogers-Stark._

_Place of Birth: Manhattan, NY._

_Date of Birth: August 1st._

_Name of Parent: Anthony E. Stark._

_Name of Parent: Steven G. Rogers._

“Hey, Steve. Do you wanna be called Papa? I’ll be dad.” Tony turned to him, a huge smile on his face. He was dazzling, the portrait of a happy man. 

It was like coming up for air when he thought he was drowning.

* * *

Pepper arrived at the brownstone the day the kids went back to school. Steve let them have two weeks off so the press wouldn’t maul them in the streets with Tony’s death still so fresh in their minds.

She was in a classic white blazer and matching skirt with a briefcase in hand.

They sat up on the rooftop garden surrounded by these wild forget-me-nots that grew out of nowhere. It was fitting. They were flowers for remembering and a fated love. A deep blue color that suggested some bullshit about true love. 

Steve was irritated. He didn’t want to sit on the rooftop, but Pepper insisted. They sat with cups of coffee between them and matching frowns on their faces. 

Pepper handed him a thick, glossy folder. 

It was like opening the manila folder that contained information on "Anthony E. Stark '' as curated by SHIELD. 

Steve glanced down. Inside the folder was Tony's will and insurance policy. 

Steve didn't bother reading the details. He held the folder up, closing it. “It just seems so permanent. With this.” 

Pepper covered his left hand, sighing. Her palms warm on his fingers. 

He thumbed his wedding band. 

“Nothing’s permanent. You’ll meet again.”

“No, it’s permanent.” He wiggled the thin paper, flashing it to her face. “No, I even have a certificate to prove it.”

Steve looked down, registering the words for the first time.

_Anthony Edward Rogers-Stark._

_Place of Death: Manhattan._

_Status: Married._

_Name of Informant: Steven Grant Rogers-Stark._

_Relationship to Deceased: Husband._

What was the use of this certificate? Tony’s dead. This was nothing but archival material that would probably fall into the hands of a university historian some point in the future.

The place of death on the certificate could be more precise.

Tony closed his eyes for the final time and he died in Steve’s arms.

It’s funny how they said death was personal. 

An act of God. 

Each person was just biding their time. The lives Steve took as a soldier and Captain America were never personal. There was detachment to each time the trigger was pulled or the shield was thrown. He was doing that for the sake of his country, for the better of mankind and the safety of people. 

He confronted Tony’s death with some sort of denial. 

When will Steve stop spending evenings in their bedroom waiting for Tony to come up from the workshop? 

He tied his entire life—his universe—to Tony. 

Steve felt like dying, too. 

Just waiting. 

Waiting.

Waiting in the basement of the workshop for Tony to show up from the SI Tower. 

Waiting for Tony to return from picking up the kids. Waiting hours for Tony to decide what he wanted for dinner then changing his mind at the last second. 

Waiting for the Audi to return to the garage. Now the car remained there, unmoved, unused. 

Waiting for his kids to stop crying for their father. Steve's also just waiting to die now.

It’s selfish. He shouldn’t be selfish. He has his children. But it’s the truth.

Tony was dead. Why was that so difficult to accept? 

He woke up in the mornings feeling sick to his stomach. Psychologically, the grief counsellors explained that it’s his body reacting to trauma.

Motion sickness was due to the body’s confusion between perceived movement and actual, physical movement. The body thinks it ingested a toxic substance and tries to expel it by inducing vomiting. 

That’s what losing Tony felt like: perpetual suspension and dizziness. He wasn’t even crying anymore. Steve was tired of crying. 

Crying made him feel worse. It took ages to settle his heart rate once the tears started. Rage soon followed. It was a never ending cycle of drowning in guilt and wrath.

He’s supposed to be inching towards acceptance. Bereavement was a marathon. But he’s never left the starting point, stagnant and nauseous with the reality he’d have to run for the rest of his life.

The marathon was over when Tony died. 

Grief felt like that. It’s a shadow that followed him. He couldn’t get rid of it.

It was his senses messing with him. There was a discrepancy between what his eyes saw and what he sensed.

The issue was _what he didn’t see._ Tony was gone and Steve’s entire universe vanished along with it.

It was almost amusing—his body was trying to compromise for what he lost by hurting itself. 

Even the serum couldn’t do anything to cure the heaviness of loss.

He was under the ice again. 

The waves crashed without remorse. All he could do was stay half-wake, half-asleep, immobile as the wreckage passed. 

That’s the ocean and that’s life. Steve’s understood that long ago. He couldn’t stop nature but he sure as hell tried. 

He hoped that there’s still some part of him that’s salvageable, a part of him that hasn’t been chipped away and worn off by the brutal waters. 

He no longer had hope for reaching a shore. 

But for now, he floated.

On and on and on.

* * *

“Uh, my head hurts.” Tony crawled into bed with a groan. “I swear, I’m gonna need prescription glasses because my left eye has gotten a lot more blurry this past year.” 

“Tony. You’re gonna get grease all over the bed sheets. Again.” Steve grumbled about Tony’s dirty clothes almost every other night. But he really didn’t care. It was part of their routine. Bicker about the sheets, argue about who’s turn it was to take out the trash. 

He pulled Tony into a hug and buried his nose over Tony’s hair. He’s been complaining about migraines and headaches the past couple of months but that seemed like a side-effect of not sleeping.

“Ugh, Steve, I just put Maguna down. Just hold me and give me a blowjob and stop nagging, baby.” 

“You should sleep more,” Steve laughed, shaking the bed with the force of it. “But yes, darling, I can blow you.” 

Tony smelled like motor oil and something that burnt, but Steve didn’t care. His husband was finally back in bed with him. 

“The moment I fall asleep, Morgan starts crying or Harley demands attention, and I can’t sleep when they need me.” Tony twisted, and turned on the bedside lamp. He sat up, stripped his shirt and threw it past Steve. 

“Next time Morgan fusses, I’ll get up, it’s my turn next, anyway.” 

“No,” Tony shook his head, petulant. “I’ll go with you.” 

“Honey, you’re not getting enough sleep in between our newborn and all the time you spend in the workshop,” Steve tried to reason. He had the serum, he didn’t need that much sleep.

They just brought Morgan home twelve weeks ago, and for the third time in their life—Steve and Tony were in love with another small human being. 

God, they cried about everything. 

Surprisingly, Harley was the quiet kid. He never cried in the middle of night. But now, as a four year old, he was nothing but a tiny little thing with a list of demands. 

Harley followed Tony around in the workshop and around the house that Tony got into the habit of calling him Shadow. 

Tony scrubbed his eyes and sighed. “I don’t want to miss anything. Not even it comes to the kids. When it comes to our family. I wish I could build something where I’ll never miss a moment. Is it crazy, Steve? That I want to witness everything. God,” Tony huffed, his mouth twitching into a smile. “Fuck, is this what it feels like to be happy, huh? To have everything you need—want—in life.” 

Steve sat up, fluffing the pillows before bringing Tony to straddle his lap. He stared up at Tony, pleased and humbled for how their lives have unfolded. “It’s not crazy. It’s—”

“It’s something I never want to let go of, Steve.” Tony pressed their foreheads together and closed his eyes. Steve blinked the sting in his eyes away. He didn’t know what he’d do if this lovely little life of theirs was taken from him.

Steve shifted forward, holding Tony’s body closer to him and intertwining their fingers. “Everything will be fine.” 

“I hope so,” Tony laughed. “God, I’m a little fucked in the head because I’m expecting something bad to happen. Things can’t always be perfect, can they?”

“They can be. We just have to hope.” Steve brought their laced fingers to his lips and gave their wedding rings a kiss. 

“How dangerous. Hope: a good breakfast, but it is a bad supper. Francis Bacon said that. Pretty funny considering what he’s saying about breakfast.”

As if on cue, Tony’s stomach rumbled. 

“You know, you make really good waffles, Steve. That thing you do to make it all fluffy, I could never get that right.” He kissed Steve. “Breakfast?”

“It’s 1am, Tony.” He pressed up for another kiss on the corner of Tony’s lips. 

“So, call it midnight breakfast and be done with it. They have that at MIT, you know, the dining commons were open 24 hours so we could feed our brains while we study during finals week.”

“I could be persuaded for another kiss,” Steve hauled Tony to his chest and rubbed his back. He was so warm, Steve sought him out the same way a sunflower followed the sun. “You know, you’re bound to wake up the minions.”

“God, we’re bad parents, huh? We let them stay up way too late.”

“Sweetheart, they’re Rogers-Stark. They’ll never be ordinary.” 

“Baby, I gave up that notion a long time ago. Captain America is their daddy-o.” Tony winked, running a hand over Steve’s bare chest. He leered for a moment, hopped off, and dragged Steve to the kitchen.

It was as if Tony spoke the statement into existence. There was something wrong with his head.

It was two inches in diameter and went by the name cancer.

The medical bay doctors, Chang, Lee, and Ramirez had said something much more medically accurate, but Steve couldn’t hear it over the ringing in his ears. His face felt flush and there were spots of black and white dancing across his eyes for a brief moment, until he saw Tony’s frown in his line of vision. 

No, he didn’t want to upset Tony. Steve shook his head, tried to focus. For fucks, sake. Tony was the one with— 

“Can you repeat that, please?” Steve swallowed down the anxiety and laced his fingers with Tony’s. Tony squeezed them hard. 

Steve tried to listen. He can’t see anything but Tony in the hospital gown, face exhausted from the battle, body battered from the fall. 

“The report from JARVIS stated that Mr. Stark had a seizure while in the air.” The doctor, Chang, consults her tablet and pulls out an MRI. They’re pointing at Tony’s brain, say something important, but Steve just observed his husband frown and nod at the information.

“Tony,” Steve said, helpless. No, he had to focus. He squared his shoulders and addressed the doctors. “What’s the plan of action?”

“As we said, Captain Rogers. It’s operable, but we need to do it right now. Dr. Lee and I will perform the surgery. There’s already an operation room booked.”

“And then, everything will be fine?” Steve brought Tony’s hand to his chest. They were strong, calloused, and filled with scars. Tony’s survived Afghanistan, the wormhole, and hundreds of missions. 

“We cannot say for sure until after the surgery, Captain Rogers. Mr. Stark will need radiation afterwards, most likely for a few months. It's best if we prepare now," Mr. Lee answered with a nod. "We'll give you a few minutes and return for prep."

“God, Tony, what the fuck.” Steve settled on the bed as the doctors left. Outside the door, the active Avengers were milling, concerned. Steve shook his head as Natasha popped her head through the doorway. “Just…give us a few minutes, Nat.”

Tony placed a hand on Steve’s cheek and turned his face. Steve balled his fists over Tony’s hospital gown, letting the tears stream down his face. “It’s gonna be alright, Tony.” 

“Steve, I know. Hush now, I’ll be okay, you heard them. There’s a high survival rate if they all do their jobs right, which I’m sure they will because I hired them for the Avengers and they are the best.” 

“I can’t lose you. Please.” His vision was blurry and his eyes stung, but he refused to let go of Tony’s hand to wipe at his tears. “I can’t make it without you, Tony. I’m not half as good without you. I can’t do this without you.” 

Maybe it wasn’t right to have his entire life and source of happiness dependent on one man. But the statement was true. Steve was nothing without Tony, his anchor. His dream. Steve’s already lost too much. He buried his father too young, and his mother soon followed. Steve was familiar with loss, but it never got any easier. 

“You won’t,” Tony said, voice certain. “Steve, I’ll go, and I’ll wake up, and you’ll take care of me and we’ll be happy. We’ll do everything we want. Everything we said we’d do.” 

“God, Tony, stop trying to be strong for me.” Steve kissed his temple, not caring for the slob he’s wiping between their faces. “Are you okay?”

“I was just told I have a brain tumor, Steve. I’m not okay. Fuck, my head is killing me, literally.” Tony grimaced and scooted further down the hospital-issued pillows. “Fucking fuck. They better get this shit out of my head.”

Steve was helpless to watch Tony wince and adjust himself in a more comfortable position. He was throwing up the previous evening. Steve should have been more vigilant. They thought Tony had a reaction to last night’s take out. God, there were so many moments Steve should have checked on Tony. But everything seemed so normal. 

Earlier, they got called for back-up by the active Avengers and the Fantastic Four for some alien drama in Midtown. Tony had a seizure while in the suit, vomited inside the armor, and fell off a building. Fortunately, Sam was able to swoop in before too much internal damage was done.

And now they’re here—in the hospital. Tony was about to go into surgery and he had cancer. What the fuck was happening? How did Steve miss this? Life was going too quickly. Maybe he got complacent, too delighted with his family life. He couldn’t help but wonder whether they’d be able to detect the cancer if he was more attentive. 

Settle down, Clint had told him, get a life. 

They have a newborn baby and two other children waiting for them at home. Fuck, what was Steve going to tell them? Peter’s six and brilliant. Steve couldn’t explain what cancer was. They’d probably ask him about cell division and the human body as an attempt to comprehend the state of their father’s—Tony’s—life. 

Steve was overwhelmed with the impending grief because what if— 

“Fuck, what are we—gonna—I have to tell the kids.” Steve pressed their foreheads together and kissed Tony three consecutive times. A hard press on the lips, an attempt to quench his fear that this would be the last time. This was all he could do. “God, Tony, we just got Morgan. You can’t—you have to be alright, Tony. Please.”

“I’d rather not have them wait at the hospital. Come here.” Tony beckoned him forward, kissed him long and deep. This wasn’t right. Tony didn’t have to kiss him like this—like goodbye, because they had all the time in the world. “I’ll be okay, baby. Can’t let Morgan grow up without me. Can’t let any of the kids run you down and bully you into spoiling them.”

His nose was running with snot, just as much as Tony’s. “We already spoil them, baby. They’re gonna be a mess and Harley will roast you for not telling him about this.”

“That kid is too overprotective, I swear.” Tony smiled, bumped their foreheads. “He gets that from you.”

“No, all the best parts of them are from you, sweetheart.” 

“No, nope. They’re all you, baby. I’ll fight you till the end of time.” Tony rubbed the back of Steve’s neck, a gesture of comfort. It was all wrong—Tony was the one with a tumor with the same exact size of Steve’s entire world. 

“Till the end of time?” Steve barked a wet sob, “Alright, I like the sound of that.”

Tony pulled the ends of Steve’s hair, an intimate act, they’ve done over so many years. He wished they had this in their future too. “Yes, we have the rest of our lives, Steve. Let’s just go through this. It’s just another mission. Something we gotta do, then we’ll debrief, and be back home in no time.” 

“Okay, okay.” Steve nodded, forcing his throat to work. “Alright, whatever it takes, Tony. We’ll face it together.”

* * *

There’s a song Steve hasn’t listened to in a long, long time. 

A song he didn’t listen to anymore. Steve told the kids to turn it off once he heard the first three keys. “Now, Peter. Please.”

“But it’s dad’s favorite song,” Morgan protested, standing in between the record player and Steve with one hand on her hips.

Tony bought it for him their first year together. It’s a vintage piece, large, and looming, taking a good portion of the living room. Against the wall was their collection of records purchased in second-hand stores all across Manhattan. 

Sometimes, Tony would be on SI business across the globe and return home with several vinyls. Then, he’d put it on the record player and sway with Steve. He laughed and joked every time Steve stepped on his toes. Even after almost two decades together, Steve never learned how to dance. He was content on following Tony’s steps, drifting around the room with hands on each other’s waist.

“That’s why he doesn’t want to play it.” Harley glared at him, arms crossed.

It still floored Steve that this little sensitive son of his could twist his features in anger just to avoid crying. 

“No, Harley. I’m just not—”

“Not ready, we know.” He glared at Steve before marching out of the living room.

Steve sighed, not sure what to do. He looked up the ceiling, wishing that Tony was somehow immortalized as an AI so he could get advice on their kids. 

They’re all still grieving. Losing a parent was a cut that never scabbed over. You kept bleeding and bleeding. Steve would know, Sarah and Joseph Rogers died before he was seventeen. He wished he could take the misery away from his kids’ faces. 

Harley snapped and threw circuit boards across the room. Steve often found him standing on the penthouse’s rooftop garden, surrounded by withered flowers. It made him nervous to see the anguish in his eyes. Harley refused to talk to him on some days. Steve’s helpless, scared his son is drifting away from him.

He tried to smile in the mornings over breakfast. He’d sipped his coffee and asked them about their plans for the day, but their eyes all drifted to the empty chair on the breakfast table. 

Steve tried to follow Harley, but Peter blocked his path. “Pops, you should let him go. Just let it go, alright? The more you chase and push him, the more he’ll run away.”

Morgan grabbed his hand, putting her tiny one over his large palms. She led him to the sofa and sat beside him. 

God, Steve was falling apart and his kids were the one taking care of him. They’re so young, they needed to be protected from this—Steve was the one who was supposed to check on them, make sure they got enough to eat, that they were sleeping alright. He was the one who was supposed to take them to their doctors appointments, to soccer games, make sure they did their homework. 

Peter handed him a glass of water then dropped next to him. 

Steve sipped it, setting it on the coffee table. He opened his arms, a quiet request for a hug. Peter and Morgan came willingly, resting their hands on his shoulders. They stay quiet for a long while. Steve didn’t bother wiping at his face. He felt for Morgan’s hair, patting it twice, before arranging her on his lap. She looked up at him with tears running down her face.

Those eyes haunted him.

Steve turned to Peter. The space under his eyes was dark. Steve knew he wasn’t getting enough sleep. JARVIS noted that both Peter and Harley woke in the middle of the night and when they couldn’t go back to sleep, they worked on engineering projects. 

He sighed, knowing he couldn’t stop them. Steve did the same—stayed up at night, eyes tracking the patterns in the darkness. Hands crawling to the left side of the bed. 

It’s always empty now. 

Would Steve count the minutes until his death? His children will likely come to pity him, see the shell of a man he’s become. Maybe, Harley already did.

Would Steve become anything other than his love for Tony? He didn’t realize until Tony’s death how much his life circled around this tiny universe, in the speck of it all, named Tony Stark. Maybe it was wrong to anchor your entire personhood to just two identities: father and husband—no, widower now.

He and Tony weren’t meant to be apart, dammit. Steve’s a God-fearing man, call him traditional or romantic, but he believed that if he had to die, it would be just right after Tony. 

_Wait for me. I’m coming. I’m next._

There is so much—there _was_ so much love in between them and it erupted out of Steve. He didn’t know what to do with all these jagged parts of himself. Tony was the one who softed up the mean parts of him, the worst parts. His kids helped. They did. They do. But it wasn’t enough, and he’s once again consumed by the guilt that _they weren’t Tony._ That they couldn’t replace their dead father. No one would. 

Harley found them that way, arms all around each other, eyes red-rimmed. He walked into the living room with an air of defiance that reminded Steve of Tony. He stood on his toes, shifted the tonearm, and played the record.

“Harley,” Peter warned, sitting up. “Stop that, now. You’re being an ass.” 

Steve sniffled, with a sad smile. “It’s alright. Come here, Harley, let’s listen to it together.”

Harley eyed them cautiously, then pulled Morgan’s feet up before sliding it under him. He faced Steve with searching eyes, then dropped his head on Steve’s chest.

His little baby boy may be thirteen, but it’s just like yesterday when he and Tony took him home from the hospital. 

“It’s a good song. I like it. We should play it more often.” Harley pressed his cheek on Steve’s chest. His heart clenched at the dampness there.

“We can play it every night.” 

“Yeah?” Harley asked.

Steve hummed, kissing the top of his head. “Yes. It’s a nice song. It’s our song. That doesn’t change anything. You’re right, Harley.” 

Eventually, the song ended and another one began. Morgan fell asleep on his lap as the two boys started tapping on their tablets. Steve closed his eyes and breathed. In and out, in and out. Everything was fine.

Missing Tony Stark was like living with a missing limb. Steve was in constant agony. This was what dying then waking up the next day to live it all over again. It’s pitiful.

* * *

He opened the bedroom door with unexplainable dread late because the left side would be empty for the rest of his life. He was so used to Tony’s tossing and turning that he had the fleeting thought to adopt a dog just so there was a regular heartbeat beside him at night. The fact that he’d spend the rest of his life sleeping on the right side of the bed, without Tony, choked him up.

The pillows didn’t prop right on the headboard and it got too cold at night. The feeling of the coolness on his back reminded him that he was alone. The empty space on the left side of the bed stared at him in accusation.

A single thought haunted Steve: he would live a longer life than he had known Tony. 

Because damn it, he was going to live to see his children graduate from college. He’d be there for every heartbreak, every wedding, every engagement party. Steve will live to see all the smiles. One day, he’d have grandchildren and he'd cherish and dote on them in the same way he knew Tony would have done.

Steve padded to the bathroom, stripped, and turned on the shower. He examined his face in the mirror, index fingers going to black bags under his eyes. At least he shaved two days ago. His eyes were caked with crust and his eyelashes were clumped up from all the crying he did today. 

He was in the safety of their bedroom so he let out a muted wail and dropped his head to the wall. His entire body shook and he felt like vomiting again. Slowly, he turned back to the mirror and placed a hand to his middle. 

Tony. God. Tony used to hold Steve’s belly, teasing him about his defined abs and kissing his nipples. Steve would flick him on the ear, then haul him up and place his bare ass on the counter. Then, they’d kiss for what felt like hours before they both hopped to the showers and fuck rough and tender and good, and so full of love.

Steve would kiss Tony’s belly button, put his hands all around him, kiss his face, neck, thankful and endlessly happy that they had something beautiful in a world filled with destruction and decay. 

He wished he had scars on his back and abdomen to prove that Tony used to run his hands all over Steve, clawing at his back when they fucked. 

Fuck the serum for taking that away. In the mirror, his body was pristine. He’s aged. Steve was in his late-forties now, biologically. There were crows feet on his eyes. Tony loved to kiss them. He said, “Steve, you’re aging, you’re human, we’ll grow old together.” 

Tony pecked them every time they had the chance. Then, in the mornings, Steve traced the lines on Tony’s sternum under the daylight filtering through the windows.

He opened the medicine cabinet and removed his wedding band with one, quick pull. 

He placed it on the second shelf, right beside Tony’s razor. 

Steve closed it, inhaled, held his breath, exhaled. 

He looked at his left hand, bare, without its vibranium ring for the first time in sixteen years.

He didn’t stop the sob that escaped him. Steve could barely see. His vision was blurry with tears. He got to the showers based on muscle memory.

Steve turned on the shower, setting the temperature to maximum heat. He jumped in, following his daily routine—shampoo, conditioner, soap. 

Then, Steve cried. Tears streamed from his face. He could only tell the difference between the shower’s water and his tears because of the taste of salt. 

He pounded hard on the tiles, hoping that the kids were asleep. They wouldn’t hear them, not with JARVIS privacy protocols and the soundproofing Tony designed years ago. He wanted to scream as loud as possible and claw his arms, his chest. He wished he was gone with Tony. Fuck, and then, guilt washed over him because _his kids_ needed their other parent too. 

But he didn’t know how to go on without Tony. His eyelids were so heavy and his chest ached. Steve didn’t remember dropping to the floor. At one moment his forehead was resting on the tiles, then he was sitting on the bathtub, one cheekbone on his knees, arms around his hairy shins. The water fell on his body, dropping over on his long hair. 

Tony used to love that. When they’d take baths, he’d run his fingers all over Steve’s shaggy hair. Then, he’d kiss Steve’s shoulders and scrub his back.

Another sob escaped him and he bit at his knee hoping it would distract him from the tightening on his chest. His heart shivered with each passing day. He wondered if it was even there at all. 

The water felt like a kiss. 

God, it’s been over a year since he’s felt Tony’s lips against his own.

Steve stayed there until his skin was red and his body stopped shaking. 

Without thought, he stepped out of the shower, scrubbed his wet hair, and wrapped the towel around his waist. 

Then, he opened the medicine cabinet and put his wedding ring back on.

It’s where it belonged.

* * *

Tony wrapped his arms around Steve’s waist and dropped his head on Steve’s bicep. “Good morning, beloved.” 

Steve turned and dropped a kiss on Tony’s curls. “You look good there. With your arms around me.”

“Of course, this is where I belong, baby.” Tony hummed, smiling at Steve from the mirror. They stayed there for a moment, content, before they followed their morning routine. They brushed their teeth together then Steve tossed his sweaty running shorts in the hamper. He got into the shower, and this morning, Tony slid the doors open and hugged Steve from behind.

Steve smiled at the arms in his middle. He laced their fingers, staring at their matching wedding bands. Tony rocked his erection on Steve’s back.

Steve turned him over with a grin and kissed his neck. The warm water washed over them, soaking their heads. Steve ducked down so Tony could wash his hair with those expert fingers. 

He pressed Steve further down, “Geez, why do you have to be so tall? You should just kneel for me, Steve. I think it would be easier.” He teased with a smirk.

“Why do you have to be so short?” 

“Oh, we’re going to pick on Tony? That’s what you wanna do today? And here I was about to offer to suck your dick.” Tony wiped the frothy bubbles from his temples and rinsed the shampoo off Steve’s hair.

One of Steve's favorite things about the future was Tony Stark. 

But he had a soft spot for their brownstone’s bathroom. It was lavish, almost as big as the kitchen from Steve's childhood home in Brooklyn. There were four showerheads; it was like taking a shower under the rain. There were large windows overlooking New York, satisfying Tony's exhibitionist streak. It was a one way glass. Steve could fuck Tony over the shower's sitting area and look at the New York skyline.

They exchanged lazy, morning kisses, rocking their bodies together until Tony grinned at him and dropped to his knees and opened his mouth.

“Fuck my mouth.” Tony kneeled down and guided Steve’s cock past his lips. He began sucking and swirling his tongue over the head.

Steve cradled Tony’s head, ran a hand through his wet strands, and grinned. “You look good there, Mr. Stark.”

Tony rolled his eyes but swallowed him down with expertise. He groaned, digging a hand on Steve’s thighs, and flattening his tongue to swirl at the shaft. Steve watched with a fond smile. “You’re perfect on your knees, Tony. Will you let me come on your tongue?” 

Tony, eager to please Steve, nodded. It was so beautiful to see Tony on his knees, pleasuring Steve, just because he wanted to—because he could. A feeling of gratefulness erupted in his chest and he toussels Tony’s hair, once again stunned that this was his life. 

Steve never had much growing up. During the Great Depression, he used to beg for scraps outside restaurants that were miraculously in business. He had taken the leftover food thrown into the garbage, scrapped off the mold, and ate it with Bucky. Now, Steve’s in this lavish brownstone with a beautiful man, who has given him everything he didn’t even know he desired. He didn’t have to worry about being hungry, not when Tony made sure their kitchen was fully stocked. 

Steve had everything now: a home, a life, a family, and everything was right in the world.

“Tony!” Steve pulled his hair, a reaction to Tony slipping off from his cock to bite the insides of his thighs. 

“You’re thinking too much, baby. Pay attention to me.”

“Don’t I always.” Steve snorted. He led Tony back to his dick. “Come here, I’ll fuck your face. You don’t have to work so hard, honey. You already do that.” 

Steve bent down to pepper Tony’s face with kisses. Tony licked the water on the seams of his lips and opened his mouth up for Steve. Their kiss turned heated and Steve couldn’t take it anymore, so he pulled Tony from the floor. “Wrap your legs around me.”

“What happened to you fucking my face?” Tony grabbed onto Steve, settling both hands over Steve’s shoulders. He pressed kisses from Steve’s jaw and down to his neck, sucking at the spot that always made Steve moan. 

“How about I fuck you instead?” Steve pressed Tony to the tile wall and pulled his head to the side. Steve licked the water running down the column of his throat, trailing messy, spit-soaked kisses down his chest until he reached a nipple.

“I’m amenable to that.” Tony groaned as Steve bit his nipple. 

He flexed his legs apart, shifting to carry Tony's weight between the hall and himself to secure leverage on Tony’s ass. He kissed the smile from Tony’s lips and reached for the bottle of lube in the caddy. Tony nipped at Steve’s bicep and leaned against the wall. 

He thrusted his hips up and rubbed the head of his dick. “Come on, baby. Are you gonna fuck me or not?” 

Steve uncapped the bottle and drizzled some lube to his finger tips. “Mr. Stark can learn some patience.”

He reached behind Tony, circling his rim before pressing in. “Is that good for you, sweetheart?”

“Yes, baby, keep going.” Tony moaned, dropping his ass down to fuck Steve’s fingers.

Steve added another finger, twisting and prodding Tony’s insides and taking his nipple between his teeth. He worked Tony open in slow thrusts, adding a third finger and more lube as he sucked hickeys all over Tony’s chest, preening at the marks. He kissed Tony’s sternum, free of the arc reactor, and pulled his fingers away. 

“Yes, finally, fuck me, split me open. I want to go to my meeting with the feeling of your dick still inside me.” Tony ran his fingers through Steve’s wet hair then slid a hand to knead Steve’s back. He pressed the head in slowly, taking care to watch Tony’s impatient expression. Tony tugged at his hair. “Now, fuck me, Steve. Now would be good.”

“As you wish, dear.” Steve glided in until he bottomed out. 

Tony kicked at Steve’s back and began fucking himself on Steve’s cock. Determined, Tony sunk on Steve’s cock, using the wall and Steve’s own body to piston himself up and down.

“That’s it, baby, just use me,” Steve said, captivated by the way Tony threw his hair back and groaned. “Take what you want.”

Steve stayed steady, holding onto Tony’s waist and feeling the sensation of being inside. “You’re so pretty, Tony. I love this. I love doing this. I love making you feel good.”

“Steve.” Tony pawed at his head and pulled him for a bruising kiss. “Please, fuck me, harder, baby. I’m going to be home late. I want you to fuck me hard so I feel you all day. So, I’ll think of you all, day.”

“I thought you already thought of me all day.” He grabbed the back of Tony’s thighs, angling it up. Steve got on his toes and began thrusting hard. 

Tony met his pace, moaning. “Always. I’m always thinking of you.”

“Yeah?” Steve caught Tony’s mouth, biting down on his lower lip, before inching a hand between them. He grasped Tony’s cock, squeezing at the base. “You’ll think of me today?”

“Don’t be an asshole, baby. You’re always on my mind.” Tony rocked his ass up and down and grabbed Steve’s head. “Look at me. You hear me, Steve? Some days, you’re all I think about.”

Steve groaned, twisting his head to kiss Tony’s forehead. With renewed effort, he pumped Tony’s dick in a quick pace, taking his large hands to jerk him from the root of his shaft to his cockhead. 

Tony rocked forward, and licked Steve’s mouth open. 

“Come for me, Tony. Come, sweetheart.” Steve shot forward, circling his hips to rub Tony's prostate. 

Tony's breath hitched and Steve doubled his efforts, ramming his dick inside Tony and jerking him off. His eyes stayed fixed on the column of Tony's throat and the deep purple spots blooming where he sucked. 

"Steve, fuck," Tony choked out. It was always a beautiful scene to see him fall apart. Tony groaned, rocking up and down furiously, driving Steve crazy. He spilled between them and the water washed away the spunk. He wished he could lick it off before it reached the drainage. 

Steve palmed Tony’s ass, squeezing it before pulling the cheeks apart to slam home.

Tony's grabbed purchase on his shoulders and like the good boy he was, met Steve's brutal thrusts. His lips were slightly open, a moan on his lips.

“You’re gorgeous, sweetheart,” Steve said. He kept fucking hard and deep until he spilled inside Tony. 

Steve stilled, letting his climax wash over him. He opened his eyes, and the first thing he saw was Tony’s soft, satisfied smile. They kissed, slow because they had time.

They had today, tomorrow, and the rest of their lives. 

Steve settled Tony on his feet, turned him around against the tiles. He took the washcloth and began scrubbing Tony’s back, unhurried. He kissed Tony’s shoulders, the middle of his back, before dropping down to check his hole. The water was already washing away his come. Tony clenched and a little dripped out.

“I sure do like the feel of your come dripping out of my hole throughout the day. You like that, don’t you, Steve?”

“Sure do.” Steve kissed the puckered hole then stood. “Come on, let’s get you dressed.”

Steve led them out of the showers. He wrapped a towel around his waist and dried Tony off. 

“Ugh, you’re too soft when it comes to my head. Scrub harder.” Tony grabbed the towel from Steve and scrubbed in quick, rough motions. “I’m fine, Steve. It’s scarred over. You being rough with my cranium is not gonna give me cancer again.”

“Tony,” Steve tried, knowing Tony’s brusque statement was his way of dealing with remission.

Tony sighed. “Yes, I know, you love me and care for me and you’d die if I died and all that jazz. But baby, you can’t live with all this fear. I’m fine.” 

“You hurt, I hurt.” He pulled Tony his chest, capturing him in a tight embrace.

“Sir, Ms. Potts has left several messages. Each voice memo has gotten increasingly threatening. I was not able to inform you due to privacy protocols in the shower,” JARVIS announced. 

Steve eyed him and tried to pull off a set of puppy eyes. “JARVIS, tell Pepper that Tony and I ran into an emergency at home and he’ll be unable to attend the board meeting.” 

“Certainly, sir.”

Tony laughed, hiding his face on Steve’s chest. “I thought I was supposed to be the bad influence,” Tony mumbled.

Steve kissed the top of his head. “Never, you’re always the good one. The best out of us.”

“Lies and slander. You don’t have to kiss my ass you know, you just fucked it.”

“I don’t have a reason to lie.” Steve tilted Tony’s chin and kissed both his eyes. Tony’s eyelashes fluttered under Steve’s own lips. “Plus, I can’t take the thought of you coming home late. I miss you all day.”

“You don’t know what to do with yourself, huh?” Tony trailed his tongue on Steve’s jaw. 

“Nope.” Steve smiled, bending down to kiss Tony’s mouth. 

“Sirs, Ms. Potts has asked me to relay this message: _Tony, sex with your husband doesn’t qualify as an emergency. No matter how mind blowing it is._ ” 

Tony shook with laughter. “Did you tell her that it was Steve who said that?” 

“I will clarify that with Ms. Potts, sir.” JARVIS paused for a beat, no doubt sending Pepper the message. “She said, _Good luck with the emergency and let her know if you need anything._ ”

“Wow, so if it comes from you, Pepper automatically gives a pass? I gotta use that more often,” Tony said.

“Well, you almost made me into a widower, I think Pepper’s giving me a pass for life.” Steve stared at him, swallowing hard. His eyes stung, and he shut them, letting a single tear fall.

Tony kissed his cheek, licking at teardrop. “I’m not leaving you, Steve. Not for a long time. I promise, alright? We have all the time in the world.”

“Alright,” Steve nodded, and led them to the bedroom. “Let’s just stay in today?”

He knew he was being needy and he’s been clinging into Tony since he was first diagnosed. Natasha and Pepper both agreed that Steve was like an emotional octopus, getting all his arms and feet all over Tony and refusing to let go.

They weren’t wrong. He coddled Tony, gave him everything he wanted, and could never say no to him. Rhodes and Carol teased that Tony would become even more of a brat, but so what? He was Steve’s brat. Alive and healthy, that’s all that mattered.

“How about breakfast in bed?” 

“Anything you want, sweetheart.” Steve ushered Tony to the bed, took their towels, hung them in the bathroom, and got dressed. 

Tony grinned, getting comfortable on the bed with all his naked flesh. He shoved the pillows behind his back and asked JARVIS to bring his hologram screens up. He started working on schematics and Steve kissed Tony stupid just to get his attention back. 

“Love you,” Tony called out to Steve.

Steve smiled. “Love you more.”

* * *

“Good morning, beloved,” Steve said to the empty room. He stared at the ceiling, not ready to look at anything else. At least the ceiling was a white canvas. There was no evidence of Tony ever marking it. He spent many mornings cataloguing the plaster on the ceiling, counting dust motes from the light filtering in the windows. 

It was the only untouched part of the house. Every other corner and crevice of their home reminded him of Tony. Even when Steve closed his eyes, Tony was all he’d see. 

Steve would have to start his day soon. Maybe, he could get a run in. Lately, it’s been harder and harder to get the motivation to leave the bed. 

Steve pulled the covers to his chin. His first thought in the morning was Tony. 

The memory of their shared kisses as the sun rises—them, two bodies intertwined.

Tony would kiss both of his eyes, his cheeks, everywhere, whatever he could reach, then slap Steve’s ass before making his way to the shower. “Good morning, beloved.” 

Steve parroted the words again. It echoed in the room. There’s no reply.

He stayed there until his body stopped shaking and the sobs subsided. The serum was supposed to keep him at optimal condition.

It was supposed to protect and enhance his mind and yet, Steve Rogers struggled to reconcile with the fact that his husband was dead. It was supposed to perfect his mentality but it failed. Steve was weak for Tony, driving himself to recollection of their shared life together. 

Sometimes, when the kids were at school, Steve screamed until his throat was sore. He pounded on the punching bag wishing like hell he was still in the field just so he could take his rage out on something. Maybe, he’d even get hit just to feel like he was still alive, not this hollow shell of a person he’s becoming.

It was just after six-thirty. The kids were still asleep and wouldn’t be up to get ready for school for another hour.

He stood, fixed the bed methodically, ensuring all the sheets were fitted in each corner. He tucked it into the mattress and the box spring. He put the duvet on top, fluffed the pillows just the way Tony liked it—fixing the decorative embroidered pillows they got from a trip in Thailand.

Steve walked over to the wall on the east side of the room. It was a mix of Steve’s paintings, portraits of the kids, photos of him and Tony. In the middle was their marriage certificate and a copy of the frontpage newspaper from the 2012 Chitauri battle.

He read the files many years ago in a SHIELD office. The serum enhanced recovery and healing abilities. Steve’s fallen off a building, got stabbed in the stomach, mangled his legs, and everytime, the serum helped him bounce back. Physically, he wasn't hurt, but everyday without Tony felt like dropping the Valkyrie down into the Arctic. He was always cold and miserable. 

The serum cured his medical ailments, but it did nothing for a grieving widower. He felt like he’s been trapped in a burning building ever since Tony’s cancer came back. His heart and ribs felt like they were trapped under a concrete. Every breath felt like it was his last. 

It wasn’t his cells dividing rapidly. Tony died and Steve kept on living.

On and on and on it went.

* * *

Steve was on the rooftop, squatting tending to the wild arugula. Their vegetable patch was a hodgepodge of Tony's favorite vegetables and Steve's plants. On the west side of the roof stood a carnation garden, while the south side was reserved for their baby greens and tomato tree. 

The rooftop was in perfect planting condition because Tony installed an invisible fortress around their brownstone that controlled the rooftop’s temperature. It was a year round greenhouse and Steve’s perfect, considerate husband built it just to support his hobbies. 

Warm all over, Steve wiped the sweat from his temple and grabbed a couple of tomatoes and cucumbers. He threw them into the basket hoping to make a mediterranean salad with dinner. Ever since Tony went into remission, they’ve changed their eating habits and Tony’s retired from using the suits unless absolutely necessary. Steve didn’t even let Natasha call Tony for backup and she never tried to persuade Steve otherwise. 

It had to be the end of the universe for Steve to let Tony back out into the field.

He enlisted their kids to pout and whine with worry anytime Tony watched the news and said, “The Avengers could use Iron Man.”

They’ve argued about it every other week.

“Well, hey there, Captain Handsome.” Tony stood in the middle of the garden, hands on his hips. He took off his sunglasses and grinned at Steve. “I do like seeing my man all sweaty. I bet you smell good too.”

Steve pushed from his heels and jogged over to Tony. “I smell like I’ve been in the sun for the last three hours while my husband was running around town doing whatever it is he does.”

He pulled Tony’s waist and kissed him stupid. Tony ran both hands over Steve’s shoulder, scratching the fabric before inching his hands to Steve’s back, then lower, to cup Steve’s ass. They made out for a while, with languid tongues, exchanging spit. 

Steve rest a hand on Tony’s hips, pulling their fronts to grind together. Tony grabbed Steve’s arms and pulled him down. Steve went to his knees with ease, running a hand over Tony’s trousers, staring at Tony’s half-filled cock.

“Suck my dick and get it wet, Steve. Then, if you’re good, I’ll fuck you with it.” Tony pulled Steve's hair, hard. “J, blackout mode on the rooftop. And _please_ for the love of all good things, alert us when the kids are on their way home.” 

Tony winked at him, thrusting his hips forward. “Now, I think I told you to do something for me, baby.” 

“Fuck,” Steve stared at Tony’s blown pupils and his bobbing throat. Steve tried to get the dirt from the palm of his hands, but it was no use, Tony’s trousers were streaked. He unbuttoned Tony’s pants, pulling them until they were below his knees.

Steve licked the head, making his way down the shaft. He sucked with ease, hot as hell that they were doing this in a semi-public place, even though they couldn’t be seen since Tony raised the invisible fortress. The rest of the city would just see this afternoon’s image of the garden. They’d have no idea that Steve was sucking Tony’s dick and looking forward to fucking his ass on it.

Steve moaned at the thought, slicking Tony’s cock with more spit. He spread it on the shaft and head, twisting his hand just right so Tony was moaning and thrusting up.

“That’s right, let me fuck your mouth,” Tony grabbed his jaw, caressing it before pressing his dick inside. 

Steve relaxed his throat, tilting up for Tony to slide further in. He groaned as Tony hit the back of his throat. Again and again, Tony slipped inside like it was his goal to bruise the back of Steve’s mouth.

Steve flattened his tongue and unzipped his jeans.

“No, no, you’re not coming yet. You’re gonna come on my dick. While my dick is so deep inside you. So be good, baby, and suck.” Tony pulled his hair and used the movement to move Steve’s face back and forth over his dick. “Steve, you’re so good.” 

He released Steve and removed his blazer and vest. Loosened his tie. 

“Keep in on,” Steve growled. 

“I was planning on it,” Tony pointed at his shoes. 

Steve unlaced the oxfords with quick, efficient hands, then pried Tony’s pants completely off. Now, Tony stood over him, bare from the waist down, dress shirt rumpled, and tie askew. He looked gorgeous and he was Steve’s.

Tony nudged him with a socked foot and dropped to his knees. He grabbed the end of Steve’s t-shirt and pulled it over his head. “Strip and turn around. On your hands and knees.” 

Steve kicked off his work boots, shucked his jeans down to his thighs, and let Tony pry it off him. His socks came off next. With Tony’s guiding hand, Steve moved forward and planted himself down on the lush patch of grass. The grass tickled his arms as he wiggled his ass in anticipation.

Tony teased his hole with the head of his cock before slapping Steve’s ass down. Tony kneaded his cheeks to assuage the sting, then he pried Steve’s ass open.

The first lick was madness. Tony knew how Steve liked to have his ass eaten out. But Tony was being infuriatingly slow. “Come on, Tony, faster.”

Tony flattened his tongue and drew circles on Steve’s rim. “Hmm, you taste so good, Steve.” He pressed two thumbs on the edge of the hole, putting slight pressure before letting one dip inside. Tony licked a wet stripe in his asshole, once, twice, before pulling away. 

“Tony, please.” Steve turned around to see Tony petting for something in his discarded pants with a huff. He grinned, holding up the small bottle of lube. “So you just really wanted to fuck me in the roof top, didn’t you?” 

Tony shrugged, uncapped the bottle, and dribbled lube right on Steve’s crack. “There’s something about you being up here and doing manual labor.” Tony slipped a finger inside, waiting for Steve to adjust before he scissored another one in. “And then me pretending to fuck you for all of New York to see.”

Steve felt the same exact way whenever he watched Tony in a tank top inventing something in the workshop. His hair would be crazy and he’d smell like a mix of his expensive shower gel, sweat, and oil. Seeing Tony in an inventive workshop binge always made Steve hard.

“Fuck me, Tony, sweetheart, darling, please.” Steve bucked up on Tony’s fingers.

“You’re not ready,” Tony hummed. 

“I like the burn,” Steve moaned, pushing back. He shifted his weight on one hand and grabbed his leaking prick with the other. “I like when you fuck me open.”

“Oh, Steve. You’re just perfect.” Tony pulled off, slicked his dick, pressing his blunt head forward. Steve waited until Tony was fully seated before fucking his ass back in long, deep thrusts. “I sure do love it when you beg.”

Tony seemed fine to let him do so as Steve twisted to catch his lips, Tony shook his head, placed both his hands on his hips. “Work for it Steve. I do like to see you focusing all your attention on pleasing me, come on,” he said, amused. 

Steve understood the challenge. He removed the hand from his cock, pushed his chest and arms down, and fucked himself on Tony’s dick. He moved quickly, using Tony’s dick for his pleasure. 

“You look so good like this, fucking yourself. Take it Steve, take whatever you want. I’ll give it to you. Anything. Whatever it is.”

Steve nodded, pushing his arms as leverage to shift so Tony could hit the right spot. “Yes, anything. You always do. I love—”

Steve choked off as Tony dragged his hips back and stopped his thrusts. He pressed Steve to his back instead and loomed over. He was such a gorgeous man. In their years together, his temples have grayed and there were new lines on the edges of his eyes. But wow, what a life. What a world and blessing to grow old together. They had all the time in the world now.

Steve smiled, hoping it would convey how full his heart felt at that moment. Tony looked like a god, framed by the sky, its light, and the greenery all around them. It was just them, alone on the rooftop. Just two people, happy and in love.

“You’re the sun,” Steve said in awe. “You’re the sun I orbit around.” 

Steve’s world spun around and around Tony. He’d have that for eternity.

Tony returned the smile, affectionate. He grabbed Steve’s left ankle, kissed the soft jut of his bone, and hoisted it up to his shoulder before sliding back inside. 

“And you’re the fancy poet I happen to be in love with.” Tony fucked him in short, hard strokes. 

His hair was still pristine. Steve couldn’t have that.

He grabbed Tony’s tie and pulled him for a kiss. Wrapping his hand on the silky red tie, he ran his fingers through Tony’s hair, pulling softly. His fingers made their way to the back of his skull and Steve felt the ridges of the scar on his head. 

Tony leaned away, an inch or two, and kissed Steve’s nose. “I’m alive, Steve. I’m healthy. I’m gonna grow old with you.”

“I just wanted to check,” Steve whispered, letting his index finger run over the five inch scar tissue starting from the middle of Tony’s head. It’s been a couple years since Tony’s emergency surgery and follow-up radiation treatment. But Steve’s always wondering _what if._

What if it returned, what the fuck was he going to do then?

“Steve.” Tony sighed and slowed his thrusts. He dropped Steve’s leg from his shoulder and leaned forward. Fucking in slow and deep. “No. I’m alive, baby. We have the rest of our lives.”

“Alright, okay.” Steve nodded, cradling Tony’s head and kissing him with all the hope and gratefulness he felt. “We have today and the rest of our lives.”

“Yes, the rest of it. I’ll fuck you like this for the rest of our lives. You’ll suck me, fuck me, kiss me, love me for the rest of it too. We have all the time in the world and the rest of our lives.” Tony reached in between them, jerking Steve’s dick. “Come, Steve. Come.”

“Okay, okay, the rest of our lives.” He threw his head back as Tony hit his prostate over and over. Dizzy with relief, Steve reached up, grabbing the tie again and mashing their lips.

Tony’s hips shuddered and he came with a loud groan. “Oh, Steve. I get to do this for the rest of our lives, baby.” He pulled off, opened Steve’s legs wide, and sucked his cock. Tony fingered his ass, fucking his come back inside. 

“Oh fuck, I’m coming, yes, Tony, keep going.” Steve lifted his hips as Tony rubbed his prostate. He came in thick spurts inside Tony’s warm mouth. That fucking mouth of his. “Fuck.” 

Tony pulled off, trailed the come from Steve’s hole over his torso. He leaned over Steve and pressed their mouths together. Steve groaned, tasting himself and as he opened his mouth Tony dropped Steve’s come into his awaiting lips. They kissed, exchanging come and salvia. 

Tony dropped his head on Steve’s chest and pinched his nipples. They stayed quiet, satisfied. Steve put a hand over Tony’s shoulder and kissed the top of his head, hand trailing on the scar. 

“Today, the world, and the rest of our lives.”

“That’s right, Steve.” Tony said, cuddling in closer. 

The sun beamed high and the scent of their come mixed with the smell of the flowers and herbs in the garden. He turned to Tony, amazed at his strength—that they have a life together. He was like a garden nymph. Dark haired, bright-eyed, and beautiful.

Steve sat up, grinning at Tony. “Stay here for a second.” 

He walked, bare ass and all, towards the flowers and plucked a handful of the dwarf carnations. He took the pale yellow, deep red, and bright white ones and sat beside Tony. 

Tony rolled his eyes with a half, twisting over to watch Steve.

He took a carnation with a long stem and started wrapping its stem around it. Over and over, grabbing a second flower, wrapping again, then a third flower, the yellow ones this time. Steve repeated the motion until he got a semi-circle. 

“A flower crown?” Tony raised an eyebrow. 

“For you.” Steve dropped the crown on Tony’s head. “You look like you belong here. Pretty, naked, mine.” 

“I can belong anywhere as long as it's beside you.” Tony straddled Steve’s thighs. He kissed Steve’s cheek with a loud smack. “I love you, Steve.”

“I love you too, Tony.” He sighed, closing his eyes. The sun washed over them and life was good— 

“Steve.” The devastated tone twisted him up. 

It was like being caught doing something he wasn’t supposed too. All the happiness he felt in that moment was washed away with guilt. 

Pepper stood by the doorway, a hand cupping her mouth in shock.

Steve took off the glasses and set it on the table. He waved a hand on the holoscreen to cancel the scene. It disappeared in a flash. 

“Hey, Pepper.” He didn’t know what else to say.

Steve didn’t try to change the memories.

But the device allowed him to watch the scenes of their lives unfold. It was better than turning over memories in his head—he recalled them perfectly—but BARF allowed him to hear Tony’s voice. The way it would fall flat at a groan. How a sarcastic remark would slide off his tongue.

“Please don’t tell me this is how you’re dealing.” 

“What lie do you want this time?” He sighed, annoyed. He wanted her out and gone so he could go back to the scene. 

The sun over them, surrounded by flowers. What happened next? Steve would lie Tony down in the patch of grass and fuck him so hard that the flower crown with fall off his head.

Sometimes grief made bitter men. 

“Steve. Do you know that saying about the grandfather’s axe? What do you think is happening when you keep using BARF? You stop reliving memories if you change them.” She inched forward, her high heels echoing in the workshop. “JARVIS, what’s the stats on Steve’s usage.”

“Sir, has used BARF for an average of three hours per day for the last ten days.” 

“Pepper, just let me have this.” 

He wanted her out of the workshop and out of the brownstone. Didn’t his friends see that Steve wanted to deal with this shit on his own?

“Look, I appreciate all of you checking on me and the kids. But it’s getting to the point we’re feeling smothered.”

“We, or _you?_ ” She asked with an arched eyebrow. Her hands went to her hips. Steve wondered if this was the same irritation and fear Tony felt around Pepper.

He matched Pepper’s stance. “The machine is supposed to help process trauma. That's what I'm doing. You can't fight me on that, Pepper.”

“Steve, it’s an illusion. It’s a memory.” She paused, eyes softening with pity. “It’s not him. It can’t be him. You’re not allowing yourself to move on.”

If all Steve had was a shadowed version of Tony, one that continued to live in memory, he’d take it. If he moved on, he was scared he’d stop thinking of Tony. Could he be forgiven when he didn’t feel fucked up with misery? It didn’t mean forgetting. He couldn’t even bury Tony. He wasn’t going to start now. 

At least he had a semi-alive interaction based on his own memories.

He could replace the mental images with BARF. But Steve didn’t want that. The memories were going to remain pristine and as clear as he remembered them. He didn’t want anything to change. Tony always warned Steve that he often got gridlocked to a routine, only willing to bend if all the facts pointed to an improved direction. 

In this case, nothing could be improved because there were no new memories to be made. 

“If the axe breaks and you replace the head, is it still the same axe?” Then he added as an afterthought, “The original saying was the Ship of Theseus. I’m not replacing memories, though.” 

“But the axe or the ship or whatever it is you want to use as your metaphor doesn’t exist in a vacuum, Steve. BARF isn’t going to help you if you don’t actually use it to get better.”

“It _is_ making me better.” 

He’d see Tony, get lost in the environment as if it was real.

But it wasn’t. 

Yeah, he’s probably not coping well. Rationally, he could understand the danger of using the tech. It wasn’t Tony, it wasn’t ever going to be Tony, again. 

“Steve, please.” Pepper approached, offering a hand. She led them both to the sofa. 

“Only if Tony built a time machine.” Steve stared at the Iron Man suits encased throughout the workshop's walls. 

57 suits with no man to pilot them. 

They were stuck in the glass, laying in their own funeral beds without Tony inside them. 

Pepper barked a wet laugh. “You know he would, right? He could do it. Tony could have probably figured out how to build a time machine. He’s brilliant. Genius,” she trailed off, looking around the workshop and all the things that belonged to a dead man.

“Why couldn’t he figure out how to cure himself, then? Why? Why’d it have to be him?” Steve spat the words out, voice shaking with rage. 

At Tony. At life. At himself.

“Because we’re human and some day, our bodies will fail us, too, Steve.” She tilted her head. “Well, most of us.”

“I wish he was selfish. I _begged_ him. I’m sorry, Pepper, but I’m a selfish man, I won’t lie about that. I begged him to find a cure. Extremis, maybe? He perfected that, didn’t he? But no, it wasn’t— he said it wouldn’t work. Sometimes I feel like he gave up but I...He wanted to die human.”

“You’re human. Don’t think you’re not, Steve. You may have the serum, but you can die like the rest of us.”

“I wish.” He rubbed a hand over his forehead. “I wish that the serum could have helped him. Hell, something. I don’t know. I would have begged Odin, made a deal with Loki. Whatever it takes, I’d have done it.”

Tony accepted his fate in the way Steve could never understand. He sighed, feeling lost and hopeless.

“JARVIS, lock up BARF so I can’t access it again. Use Tony’s voice command as key.” 

Steve will never hear that voice again. Inch by inch, his heart broke again. 

“There’s that support group in Brooklyn. The one Sam mentioned?” Pepper said. Her eyes were red-rimmed again. Steve wondered how she had so much control over her features. He’s never seen the tears fall from her eyes since the funeral. “Give it a shot? It might help be around other people who are going through the same situation.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Give it a try, it might do you some good.”

That’s the issue. Nothing was ever going to be good again.

They stayed quiet, letting the hum of the bots and the machine wash over them. 

Steve didn’t have the energy to clean up the workshop. There must be mold in one of the coffee mugs. He could smell it, but he didn’t dare touch anything. Everything has stayed the same. Maybe then, he could pretend that Tony would come back. Pretend Tony was still there.

* * *

Steve tried getting Peter and Harley to join him for morning runs around a track in Red Hook or in the High Line but they slept late and preferred sleeping in. All Steve’s attempts to institute a bed time was ignored. 

“If dad doesn’t have a bedtime, then why do we?” the kids had asked. “What happened to giving us our autonomy?” 

Tony rolled his eyes and deadpanned, “The perks of being a liberal parent, Steve.” 

Peter and Harley preferred late evenings in the lab with Tony, exchanging notes and ideas. Steve’s taken to sitting on the workshop sofa with Morgan on his lap—the two of them sketching the lab’s robots and their boys.

“Dad would stay up for 24 hours, so I can do that too.” Harley twisted his lips, tinkering with a potato gun.

“Well, your dad is irresponsible and needs to get rest.” Steve said, fond, before dropping a kiss on Tony’s crown. “Not really a good model for you two.”

Tony snickered, but tilted his head up for a kiss on the lips. 

“Your husband doesn’t want to sleep alone. He prefers sleeping with your arms around him.” Steve swiped the sweaty hair from his face. He had a good half-marathon run around Central Park earlier. 

“Husband needs to pry me from the workshop then.” Tony squeezed Steve’s fingers and begged for coffee. “Once this project for SI is approved, then I’ll be back in bed stealing your blankets, baby. Now, coffee! Please, darling?”

The two boys stuck their tongues out and engaged Tony in a conversation. They always wanted their dad’s approval; wanting to discuss new projects, how to improve their robots, whether they’d be able to use a part of JARVIS’ code for their own AI. 

Steve opened the fridge and fried up a carton of eggs and bacon. Morgan padded over, kissing her papa on the cheek before marching to her little kiddie stool. She assisted with adding the English muffins into the toaster. As they finished setting the dishes, his three boys padded over and began scarfing down breakfast. 

“I missed you last night.” Steve set Tony’s favorite mug in front of him. It was given to them by a gift shop owner in Tennessee after they assisted with disaster relief. “My Red Hot Lover.” Steve read the words from the mug and grinned at Tony. 

“I know, baby. I submitted the schematics to Pep, so everything should be fine now.” He smiled and climbed onto Steve’s lap, ignoring the kissy and mocking faces their kids made. “You won’t miss me tonight.” Tony winked. 

Just for payback Steve kissed Tony soundly on the lips. “Now, my Red Hot Lover has time for me, does he?” 

“Always.” Tony made himself comfortable on Steve’s lap and sipped his coffee, sighing with every sip. Once he was done with his cup, Steve diligently reached for the French Press and refilled it to the brim. “Love you, Steve.”

“Love you more.” Steve kissed his neck and ran a hand through Tony’s mused cowlicks.

“Gross.” Harley said, not looking up from his potato gun.

“It’s cute.” Morgan smiled, reaching for Tony’s hand. She squeezed it tight, three times, laughing as their fingers collapsed on each other. 

Tony pulled their intertwined hands and kissed her little fingers. He squeezed it three times before setting it back down on the table. 

Steve’s chest twisted. He wasn’t part of inside jokes, but that’s alright, he was content on being on the sidelines. He and Tony had their own park bench, their own shared histories, and plans for the future. Everything was fine, and for once, Steve wasn’t scared of the unknowable future. 

“Eh,” Peter reached for another piece of bacon with a shrug.

“Not true, Steve, not true at all.” Tony pressed against his chest and popped a blueberry into his mouth.

Steve hummed, dropping his chin on Tony’s shoulder. He kissed Tony’s jaw. “It’s true, darling, I’ve got a mug to prove it.” He grabbed the chipped white mug. In bold curly letters it said: _LOVE YOU MORE._

Tony turned to peck him on the lips. “Sap. Jezz, whatever happened to the other pair of that?” 

“DUM-E dropped it.” Morgan and Peter looked at each other with a determined nod. 

“Sure, blame everything on DUM-E or Butterfingers.” Harley stuck out his tongue. 

The kids began chatting about their plans and projects for the day. Morgan planned to help Steve with harvesting some of the basil and cucumbers in the garden, while Peter and Harley tried to convince Tony for access to tools in the lab. The morning conversation was light and it washed over Steve. He was content to listen to them joke and tease each other. At least the kids didn’t fight often and when they did, Tony and Steve made sure to explain their feelings to the kids. Parenting was a lot of work. But life was good.

He pulled Tony closer and squeezed his middle, humming. 

“Love you.” Tony whispered. 

“Love you more, my Red Hot Lover.”

* * *

His friends ambushed him while the kids were off at school. 

Rhodes, Carol, Pepper, Bucky, and Natasha stepped into the brownstone’s living room with a mix of unconcerned and neutral expressions, but Steve wasn’t fooled. At least Sam wasn’t with them this time.

Every other weekend, they came to the brownstone with some excuse to check on Steve. 

Steve could understand Pepper’s investment. She needed to ensure the future of SI. Steve couldn’t screw the business. Well, he had nothing to do with it anyway.

He wiped his forehead, standing to give them all a brief one-armed hug. He went to the kitchen and fixed them drinks, movements mechanic. Get the glasses. Pour the drinks. Put them in the tray. An easy task. He could do that. 

He looked at the cabinet. Tony’s gin and bourbon remained untouched. Steve stared at it some evenings and if the light was just right, he could see Tony’s fingerprints. He wasn’t going to cry, not when there’s company. 

He grabbed the tequila, pouring generous portions in the glasses, and placing them all in a tray. He returned to the sitting room and almost laughed. They were all poised with their feet planted to the floor, arms open in invitation. 

Steve wasn’t gonna fall for it. This was another intervention. 

He rolled his eyes and dropped the drinks on the table with a bang. He grabbed one and finished it off even if he couldn’t get drunk. 

Steve dropped on the love seat. “What’s up?”

Rhodes snorted. “You know, that’s something Tony would say. Try to play this off as something casual. But you know why we’re here, Steve.”

“Another intervention,” he said, trying to tone down the accusation in his voice. He sat back on the sofa. Tony used to nap there in the afternoons. 

“Steve,” Pepper measured out, her cheeks were a blotchy red and her hands were shaking as if she’s barely restraining herself from slapping him. 

“You’ve kinda been an asshole, Steve.” Carol took two of the drinks and passed one to Pepper. “No offense.” 

“Carol, now you’re the one being an asshole.” Natasha cleared her throat, then straightened, her face was the portrait of concern. Her voice was soft. Gentle, like talking to a skirmish animal. “How are you, Steve?”

“Same shit, different day. My husband’s dead and I’m raising our kids alone.” Steve crossed his arms and leaned against the cushions. He remembered the day they picked the sofa. Harley spilled engine oil on it and Morgan threw up on the back pillow when she had the flu. So much history on this simple furniture. Steve couldn’t throw it away. 

Pepper stood up, hands balled into a fist. Her heels clang against the floorboards. She looked vicious; she only reserved that when Tony pissed her off. “I’ve reached my limit. I can’t have my godchildren calling me every night telling me they can hear their father crying. Or the fact that you’re not sleeping and you’re breaking punching bags every night. I know you’re grieving. I know it hurts. I know—” 

Pepper didn’t know a single thing, who cared if she was one of the smartest women in the world. “None of you know the half of it.”

Steve felt the rage bubbling over, he leaned forward, trying to restrain himself from lashing out. Pepper’s heard the worst of his comebacks. She didn’t deserve his scathing remarks. 

He couldn’t excuse his behavior just because his husband died. 

“I hurt for the kids, I hurt for Tony.” Her eyes flashed. Pain. She was in pain too. It’s a familiar ache. Grief was filled with longing. Yearning for the dead. “Don’t ever raise your voice at me, Steve. You can grieve forever and it’ll hurt every single day. No doubt about that. But shit, get it together for the kids.”

“What do you think I’ve been doing?” Steve seethed, loosening the grip he had on the glass. He made sure he was there for _everything._ He managed it all—meals, sleeping schedules, projects, their education. Steve was doing it all himself. What else did they want? 

“That’s not what we meant, Steve.” Carol cut in, voice soft, attempting to diffuse the situation. Fuck, he always had to make things worse didn’t he. His temper came in waves, usually drowning him in rage whenever he had to put up with this bullshit. “We meant that you could use some time off to process everything. It’s just. You just threw yourself into caring for the kids, managing the Avengers again. You need—”

“No.” He barked out. “I’m fine. The routine of work is helping.” 

“Not if you’re overworking yourself.” Bucky said.

“Tony made me promise to make sure that you take care of yourself. I’m not breaking that.” Pepper narrowed her eyes for a moment, then turned and left the penthouse. He knew she’d return soon. No apologies. No hard feelings. 

She’s been there every Sunday, showing up after lunch and checking in with the kids.

She didn’t have to do that. It set Steve on edge even though she was only trying to help. He couldn’t explain it. He appreciated Pepper’s care and support, but he couldn’t stop feeling like he was fucking up. As if she needed to check on him. Confirm that he was alive and the kids were alright. It’s as if Steve couldn’t take care of them. And he could, dammit. 

He didn’t know how to give up. Maybe that’s the worst thing about him. He’s gonna live because he has to. That’s all he can do now. Breathe. Eat. Pretend he was moving on so that the kids could too. 

They watched her retreating figure. 

Rhodes eyed him with something like pity. “We’re here to help, Steve. If you ever just want time for yourself, you can let us know. We’ll take the kids out for a day, a weekend.” 

“No,” He shook his head immediately. They couldn’t take the kids. He didn’t want to be alone. “That’s alright. We’ll manage.”

Carol sighed. “What we’re saying is you don’t have to do everything yourself. You don’t just have to manage, you could—”

“Alright.” He nodded, taking the other glass of tequila. He threw it back in two gulps. 

Carol and Rhodes looked at each other, speaking in silence.

He and Tony used to do that and the kids used to call it trouble. 

Steve didn’t have that anymore. No silent conversations. No hand to hold. 

They intertwined their fingers and stood, bidding Steve a too-friendly goodbye.

Natasha sat across for him and finished off Carol’s drink. “Grief is a hard thing to deal with, Steve. It’s alright to take breaks. You don’t always have to be so…”

“What? Overbearing?” That’s what Harley’s taken to calling him. Peter would twist his lips into a frown and scratch his head. At least Morgan just took it in stride when Steve double checked that she had her phone, that her temperature was normal, that they were healthy. “Be an asshole to my friends who are just trying to help? I know, I see it all. Sorry. I just don’t know… how to…It’s hard to do this. It’s difficult to live, Nat. It really is.” 

“No, not overbearing, but you don’t have to carry all of this yourself you know. You could actually talk to your kids, instead of saying you’re alright. Instead of telling them that everything’s fine. They’re not stupid. They know… They’re worried about you, that’s all. You can’t pretend that you’re okay in front of them. They _see_ you. They see you’re barely holding it together.” Natasha walked over and perched on the couch’s arms, still nimble after years of being out of the field. 

Her hair’s still thick, but there were more grays peppered in her red locks, especially on her temple. He wondered in the past year how much of Tony’s hair would have turned gray.

In the end, his dark curls faded into something lighter over the years. 

Bucky stayed perched on the other sofa, one foot on his other knee. He nursed the empty glass, turning it in his hand. “The kids are really worried. I know Harley’s been a little shit. It might help to show them you’re moving on, Stevie.”

“I don’t want to move on. I don’t want to love someone else, Buck. I can’t. I don’t want to forget.” He laughed, the sound broken and pathetic. “I can’t forget. Eidetic memory. I see him every night. Before I close my eyes. When I look at Morgan. See Peter. Hear Harley.” 

“That’s not—” Bucky leaned forward, catching Natasha’s gaze. Like Rhodes and Carol, they shared a silent conversation between them. Fuck this. 

“I’m never gonna love again, Buck. Not because I don’t want to. It’s just not possible. I don’t want to love someone the same way I loved him. Do you know what it’s like to _need_ someone more than you needed to live? To love someone with your bones and your flesh and all of what makes you who you are and how much of a goddamn happy thing it is when they love you the same way? You can’t get that again, even if you try.”

God, what Steve would do to hold Tony in his arms again. 

“It won’t be the same way,” Natasha squeezed his hand. “Nothing ever will be.” 

He lived in a city with eight million people, passing by hundreds of faces every single day, but he never felt as alone as the day Tony took his last breath. 

“You can’t be waiting for your turn, Steve. Your kids need you,” Bucky said. “You can’t live like this.”

“I do everything I can for them—the same old things.” He laughed, the ugly sound echoing in the room. This house used to be filled with jokes and laughter. Now his kids barely smile. “I don’t know how to live without him. It’s pretty pathetic, isn’t it? My entire life, since waking up from the ice was being Captain America. Being with Tony. Being a father, being Tony Stark’s husband. I don’t know what to do without him.” 

“That’s the problem, you’re doing the same things you did with Tony, and that’s okay, but you have to try new things too.” Bucky stood, patted his shoulder, then padded to the kitchen with a sigh. It sounded like he was making a late lunch for them.

“Steve.”

“I’m fine, Nat.”

“You’re in denial, Steve. You can’t go on like this any longer.” 

He scrubbed a hand over his head, frustrated. It’s been over a fucking year. A year was nothing. 12-months, 365 days sleeping alone in bed, 8760 hours mulling over the fact that Tony died in his arms.

He could grieve forever if he wanted to. Everyone needed to just shut their damn mouths and let him _be._

Grief hurt. It was worse than waking up in a new century, lost, confused with who he was supposed to be—Captain America. At the end of that tunnel was always Tony, anchoring him. Tony who gave him a home, his best friend and partner before they even got together. Tony was his Shellhead before they decided, fuck it, we’re not invincible, let’s get married, retire, and have kids. Live life. Be happy. Whatever that meant.

Before all of that, there was Tony.

“We were supposed to be a happy ending. Tony said we’d have a happy ending.” 

“Relative. I’ve come to understand that happy endings are relative.” 

“It isn’t supposed to be like this.” He choked on the words, letting himself break down in the way he could never do in front of his kids. “He’s not the one that has to go on and keep on living. Fuck.”

He didn’t want them to worry. Someone had to keep it together. They just lost their father. They were still children who barely reached any of the important milestones in their lives, and yet, their father was dead.

Body burnt.

Every morning, when he woke up in bed alone. When he stepped into the shower, Tony’s hair products lined the walls and stared at him. He didn’t have the courage to throw them away. He couldn’t. Not yet, maybe not ever. Who cared if that was unhealthy? Tony used to scrub his hair with it every morning, sometimes with Steve lathering soap on his back. Then, he’d turn, soap suds on his eyebrows and kiss Steve until he was breathless.

Fuck no, he wasn’t gonna throw them away. They were gonna stay there and Natasha would have to hold him down before any of Tony’s belongings left their bedroom.

He’d stare at his children, feeling defeated and enraged that Tony _left him._ That he’d be missing Harley’s first day in high school. Peter’s graduation. He wouldn’t be here to help Steve move the kids into their college dorm. Soon, Harley and Morgan would follow, and Steve would pick out the beddings and the decor without Tony. He’d have to do all of that, alone.

There would be new faces introduced to the family as their children fall in love and bring their partners home, reminding Steve that he lost the love of his life. There would be more holidays and family outings without Tony. 

There would be more experiences without Tony. There would be endless moments of pure happiness when one of their kids does something incredible—maybe Peter would follow Tony and revolutionize a scientific field. Maybe Harley would do the same. There would be so many more moments of misery until Steve found his way back to Tony.

They'd only meet again in death.

And he would have to leave the kids then.

He struggled to keep his breath even, sobs breaking free. His throat ached and itched. 

Steve scrubbed his eyes, annoyed at the hot tears. How many more years was he going to cry? He was just waiting for his turn, waiting for death to come. He couldn’t think like that. He had his children to care for, but sometimes, there was the fleeting thought: it would be easier if he gave up and followed Tony. 

He won’t. He won’t give up. Steve Rogers didn’t do that. He’ll pretend this was a battle. He had to live. He had to. There’s so much more of life, they told him. There has to be something more than grief swallowing him whole. 

“I can’t go on without him, Nat. I couldn’t know how to live without him. You spend your whole life building a future with someone.” He searched his eyes, lost. They’ve all lost people, but goddamn, this was Tony. He barked a wet laugh. “He is a futurist and—no, he _was_ the futurist and he’s not even here to see how the future unfolds for _us._ For his kids. Gone, Nat. You get that? I don’t know what to fucking do.” 

She stayed silent, lips turning to a pressed line. She shifted closer, wrapped an arm around his shoulder, then rearranged them so Steve’s head was on her lap. 

He used to do the same exact thing for Tony after his workshop binges. Tony would mumble sleepy about his project and Steve would run his fingers over those curls. 

“Grief and death is something we’ll all go through. We’ve been through.”

“Yes,” he mumbled, thinking about Peggy’s funeral, losing soldiers in France, Bucky falling off the train. “But this is Tony. I thought we’d have forever.”

“Forever isn’t infinite. Your life isn’t over, Steve. You have to live. I know, it’s like listening to a broken record, you have all of us giving you platitudes, checking on you. I see you’ve reached the end of the line. But it’s true, Steve. You’ll be alright, one day. But grief, it stays. You’ll always miss him. Love him. But you can’t keep doing this. Your children need you.”

“I know, Nat. I know. God, believe me when I say that I’m here for them. Because I am— I won’t leave them. I’m here. I’ll be a goddamn father. A better one. I promise. I’m just—” He turned over, finally opening his eyes to catch a photograph of their little family. Tony and Steve were sitting under a tree in Central Park with Morgan between them, and Peter and Harley on their sides. Tony had his classic peace sign up and the boys were grinning. Morgan was still a toddler, cooing and sucking on her pacifier. 

He was in remission, then. Happy, healthy. Alive. 

_We have the rest of our lives, Steve. Today, tomorrow. All of it._

Steve stared at the photograph every morning. Somedays, he wanted to turn it over, face the frame down so he could stop trying to relive that day. 

“You need to let them be there for you. Or else, you’ll all struggle. Have you thought about seeing a therapist?” 

“The kids go twice a month.”

“The kids, yeah, but you, Steve, you need that too. Someone to help you process this. You can talk to all of us, but it isn’t the same. I think it would help.”

He snorted, Tony would roll his eyes regarding the therapist. He made B.A.R.F. 

Steve didn’t need a therapist. He needed Tony. Here. In the flesh to bully him into making breakfast. 

When will he stop searching for Tony across the dinner table? The other end of the table remained empty and without a plate for every breakfast, every dinner. When will he stop searching for Tony’s warm body in the middle of the night? When will he stop padding to the workshop to lure to bed only to remember that the lab has remained empty for the last year? 

When will Steve stop seeing Tony in Harley’s boyish grin, in Peter’s shy laugh, in Morgan’s eyes? It hurt that there were days when he couldn’t look at their children, afraid he’ll break down and never stop crying. 

Melancholia was different from mourning. In grieving, there was a process of denial, then somehow, acceptance. But Steve wouldn’t ever accept a life without Tony in it. Melancholia was mourning without an end. 

He hated Tony for leaving them.

* * *

He used to love their brownstone. They’d have breakfast on the terrace, surrounded by large sycamore, but most weekends, they’d take their meals in the rooftop garden, admiring the blooming carnations. 

Now, home felt like a prison. He walked around the brownstone feeling heavy as he opened the cabinet and dug out four plates for the table instead of five. 

It felt like a betrayal to set the table and have a seat empty.

Steve felt cold with grief, walking around his home with all of Tony’s inventions loitering around. He couldn’t even talk to JARVIS without thinking of him. 

Now, Steve lived his life suspended in gravity. Trapped in ice, his whole world was frozen. 

It’s like he was deep asleep in the Arctic. Body reserving his life. Steve’s awake and confined to his own penitentiary. Memory was a shark that circled him in the deep waters. It wasn't the shark’s murderous intent that drove up his anxiety, but it was the very fact that the shark existed at all. 

He floated without direction. 

Suspended animation meant slowing life processes for survival. The body’s one last hurrah; an attempt to preserve life form without terminating life itself. But it meant living in the barest, most minimal conditions. 

That wasn’t really living. 

But this half-life was something Steve needed to become habitual. If he had the choice, he’d be gone, adrift in the bottom of the ocean. 

Frustration and grief were Captain America’s old friends. He knew them in the ways men made friends with horrible, awful things and believed they loved them anyway. 

The ache in his chest was a familiar feeling now.

Each room in the house led to Tony in one form or another. The library was filled with his books ranging from philosophy to quantum theory. They selected the paintings from his personal collection and they hung Tony's favorites on the north wall of the living room.

On the sofa was Tony’s blue velvet blanket, purchased from a thrift store in the Lower East Side. 

Steve used to watch Tony all the time. He was like a moving target, shifting constantly running around the brownstone, skipping to the living room with Morgan in his arms.

His eyes always found Tony, in the suit, soaring in the sky. Tony, at home, in their bed, asleep. Tony talking to their kids. Tony, Tony, Tony.

Now, he’s gone, but Steve hasn’t trained his eyes to look for other things. 

“You pick where to go,” Tony used to say when Steve asked where they should have dinner.

He always gave Steve the choice. 

There’s endless rooms in the little brownstone. Steve didn’t know where to go. He stood in the kitchen, motionless. He could escape and tell his children they’re moving away. Out of New York. Out of any place Tony’s ever been in.

Steve didn’t want to live in space where Tony breathed.

He’d always wonder if Tony stood in that very spot. Did he have his arms crossed? Was that before he met Steve? But he’s reached an impasse. Their home—no, the world was like a culs-de-sac, everything returning to Tony.

There’s no escape. Steve didn’t want to leave anyway.

* * *

Steve prepared dinner meticulously. He was still used to cooking for a family of five, not four. Somedays, he still set an extra plate on the table. The kids would glance at it and say nothing. 

“Where are the kids?” Steve looked up at the ceiling. He has gotten used to pulling them from their projects because they kept passing on messages via JARVIS that they’d just be ‘five more minutes.’

“They’re in the workshop, Captain Rogers.” 

“Workshop?”

“Sir’s workshop.” JARVIS clarified. 

Steve frowned. He asked the kids not to go there. Steve wasn’t ready to clean up the suits. He had no idea what to do with them and he hadn't read Tony’s will yet, so he didn’t know the protocol. Tony planned his death: he made Pepper CEO with the stipulation of one of the kids taking over if they wished. JARVIS announced that the armor had upgrades. Tony gave him a list of Christmas present ideas, anticipating all their children’s taste and needs. Tony was a futurist. But did he foresee Steve’s demise after his death?

Steve walked down the basement and entered his code for the workshop. The double doors opened with a soft click. The scene in front of him ripped his heart out, inch by inch, until he was flayed and threadbare. Steve swallowed, hard. 

Morgan was sitting on the lap of a sedentary Iron Man suit. It was Mark VII, the suit Tony wore when he redirected the nuke to the portal in the Battle of New York. They were on the floor and one of Tony’s—no, the suit’s—hand was on her waist. He wondered if she placed it there. If she arranged them like that. Tony used to do that whenever she sat on his lap. 

“Dinner’s ready.” He croaked out. Steve wasn’t going to cry. “What are you doing here? Didn’t I say not to—” 

The kids all looked up at him feeling guilty.

“Hey, pops. We didn’t touch anything...just uh, the armors.” Peter popped up from behind a suit. It was Mark XLVII. Tony worked on a couple years ago, before the recurrence. It was sleek with silver plating and had an advanced laser system. He built the Iron Legion as a precursor measure for any work catastrophe too. Even in death, he's still the hero.

“We didn’t touch anything!” Harley replied, from a desk at the corner of the room. He pointed a wrench towards Morgan. “It was her idea.”

He swirled on the wheeled chair and held up the schematics of the suit beside him. It was Mark XLII. The armor was mostly in gold plating and looked like a menace. "This Mark has some design flaws. I’m trying to improve it with dad’s notes."

“Harley,” Steve gritted out, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Don’t mess with your dad’s stuff.”

Tony’s favorite work table was untouched, still a mess of mugs, notes, and tools. On the middle of it was the helmet of the last Iron Man suit he worked on. Steve bit his lip and dragged his gaze back to the kids.

“Someone’s gonna have to use this in the future. I mean, pops, there’s always work to do, you told us that. The world needs heroes. Iron Man,” Harley added, shrugging. He had a screwdriver in his left hand and his fingers were stained. Goddammit, he looked like Tony. “Besides, like I said, we found Morgan here the first time, so—”

“Don’t blame me!” She twisted around the suit and lifted Steve’s sketchbook. “I was drawing Harley and Peter.”

Steve walked forward and crouched beside her to observe the drawing. He’s been remiss on helping her with her shading technique. Steve didn’t draw much anymore. 

“Looks good.” He ruffled her hair and traced the lines on Tony’s goatee in the drawing. “You drew me and your dad, too.”

“Yup.” 

Steve tried to hold back the tears, but he has never been strong. He ignored the burn in his lungs and took a deep breath. “The first time?” He turned to Peter and Harley.

Morgan shrugged with a frown. “It makes me feel safe, like dad’s watching me. Like he’s here.” 

“Morgan.” Steve bit down the curse on his lips. It wasn’t good that they were here, seeking Tony’s presence in this way. Surely, it meant they weren’t moving on? He’d have to schedule another meeting with their therapist. He told them not to go here. He asked them to leave the workshop alone. “I don’t think it’s good that you all are here.”

“Why not?” Morgan and Harley asked at the same time.

“Because—”

“Pops, you alright?” Peter asked, stepping away from where he and the armor sat side by side on one of the workshop tables. It looked like he was working on his web fluid project. 

“If this is about moving on and healing again, please, pops, save it,” Harley interrupted. “I miss him. I like talking to the suits. It helps me work, alright? We toss ideas and it’s like dad is here. Even though, yeah, I know he’s not. But it helps...It helps.” 

“Harley,” Steve wiped the sting from his eyes, but the fat lot of tears rolled down his cheeks anyway. 

“I wish he made himself into an AI.” Morgan twisted her lips and tossed the sketchbook with a pout. 

His heart stopped. He wanted to hit something. Scream until he couldn’t speak. Steve had the same fleeting thought, but it wouldn’t be the same, would it? It’s like what Pepper said about the Grandfather’s Axe. How much of it would remain as Tony when they’d upgrade the AI, make him more real, more human. Could it still be Tony? 

Steve shook his head. Thinking about possibilities would drive him insane. He didn’t want that for the kids.

“We just miss him.” Peter leaned over from the sofa and squeezed Steve’s shoulder. 

“I know.” Steve pressed the ends of his fingers over his eye lids. He didn’t want to be like this. He didn’t want to cry anymore. He didn’t want to breakdown every time he entered the workshop. He wiped the stray tears on his jaw. “I miss him too.” 

The chair squeaked against the concrete flooring as Harley drove it beside Steve. “Pops.”

“It’s alright, sweetheart. It’ll be alright,” Steve said, hoping that if he said the phrase enough, it would come true. “We’ll be okay.”

“When?” 

“I don’t know. I’m so. I’m so sorry. I don’t know. But we will.” He kissed the top of Morgan’s head.

They stayed there, silent but for Steve’s stifled cries. The kids were pained and soon enough, Morgan’s sobs echoed in the room. She moved the suit to grip her shoulders to a faux-hug. Steve’s heart broke again, centimeter by centimeter, all the blood gushing out of him. He wished there was actual blood dripping from his body because at least then, the pain of loss would be tangible.

Harley shoved a headset over his ears, barked out some codes, and then, Mark XLII moved from across the room. It stood over Steve, it’s long, powerful torso looking menacing and all at once, so much like Tony. Steve could picture Tony in there, with a smirk, as the armor offered a hand.

Steve took it after throwing Harley a confused look. Mark XLII pulled him up until they stood close, Steve’s chest and the armor plating touching. Then, the suit pulled him into an embrace.

His hot, wet cheeks pressed against the armor’s golden chest. The arc reactor shone bright, twinkling. 

He wished the faceplate would lift up so Tony could kiss him.

His children tried to offer him comfort and do him justice in this embrace. But it wasn’t Tony— the suits were just an estimate of the real man.

Steve wrapped his arms around the suit and fell apart once more.

* * *

Tony wasn’t having a good day. His skin was tinted with sweat and his breath was ragged.

Rhodes and Pepper were visiting them. They offered Tony a box of Randy’s donuts, flown into New York from Los Angeles. Steve broke off a small piece of the blueberry glaze and offered it to Tony. 

Tony tilted his head and opened his mouth. “I’m gonna force that down my throat if it kills me.”

“Tones, man.” Rhodes sat on Tony’s right side, careful not to jostle the bed. He seemed lost for words. 

“Honeybear, you flew the suit just to get me these. I’m gonna eat them. God, I hope I don’t vomit.” Tony opened his mouth for another piece. Steve delivered it, breaking off a sliver and pressing it to Tony’s mouth. “Thank you, baby.” Tony kissed his thumb, chewed, then swallowed with a grimace. 

That’s all they could do these days. It was hard to keep down food with the nausea. 

They talked for a while. Steve watched them exchange stories about SI, the Air Force, and the kids. They were careful not to mention Tony’s current decaying state. That’s what it was—a slow death. 

He didn’t know if it was selfish for him to wish it was slower. Just so they could have more time together. Steve’s a greedy bastard but that’s what happens to desperate people. 

“Steve.” Tony leaned forward as Steve offered him another piece of donut. This time, Tony's favorite, the butter crumb donut. Tony twisted his mouth, “I’m fine. Save some for the kids.”

“Alright.” Steve closed the box and rubbed his sticky fingers on a napkin. He shifted closer to kiss Tony’s temple.

He wished Tony could eat the entire box and enjoy it. 

“Steve.”

“Hm?”

“Promise me something.” Tony opened his hand and laced their fingers. Steve brought it up to his lips and kissed the wedding band.

Steve thumbed Tony’s wrist, feeling the soft skin. “Anything you want, Tony. I’ll give it to you. Whatever it takes.” 

“Take care of yourself, alright? I know you. You’ll take care of the kids, you will and you’ll be amazing at it. I just wish I was doing this—life, parenting, all of it with you. I’m sorry I can’t, baby. That I won’t be there. I’m so— ”

“Tony, don’t apologize. It’s alright, sweetheart.”

Tony’s face was so gaunt, but he’s still so handsome. Just as gorgeous as the first time Steve saw Iron Man flying in the sky. “Take care of yourself, please, baby. You need to be okay. Because if I go and you’re not alright. I’m not gonna rest, Steve, I’ll haunt you. I swear I will.” A fleeting smile appeared. “Be good, Avenger.” 

Steve swallowed, taking his free hand to rub at his damp eyes.

“I will, Tony. I’ll be alright.” Steve promised, moving as close to Tony as possible.

Tony turned to Rhodes and Pepper, resting his head on Steve’s chest. “You’ll make sure he’ll be alright, Rhodey, Pep. Won’t you?”

Tony was the one dying, yet here he was, asking Rhodes and Pepper to take care of Steve. Steve didn’t bother wiping his face, it’s been streaked endlessly the last few months, even more so these last 24 hours, where they all seemed to just hold their breaths, wondering when Tony would close his eyes for the final time. 

People lived their lives knowing that death was inevitable. But Captain America and Iron Man saw the end of the world many times over and survived it each time. 

There was no victory here, just loss. Steve’s heart broke again and again, knowing he’d live the next half of the century without Tony. Maybe more.

“J, are the kids near?” Pepper sat on their bed, eyes a clear blue. “I think they’d enjoy the donuts before their daddy eats them all.”

“Happy’s driving as fast as possible, Ms. Potts.” 

“They’ll be here soon, Tony. So eat up, or Harley will finish it all,” Rhodey said.

Tony smiled, lightly squeezing Steve’s hands. They used to be so strong—carrying soldering irons, building machines, now, they were still the same, but the veins on his wrists and the back of his hands were more pronounced. Tony’s lost so much weight. 

“They’re my life.”

“Mine too, and so are you.” Steve brought their intertwined fingers to Tony’s chest. He needed to feel the heartbeat, demanding that it kept beating, strumming that familiar pattern. 

“Steve, remember what you told me?”

He managed a wet snort. “I tell you a lot of things, sweetheart.”

Tony hummed, a soft laugh shaking his form. Steve wanted to hear the sound again and again. “Yes, you do, never stop telling me things, I want to hear everything you have to say Steve, every thought, every promise.” Tony swallowed, turning to him, eyes still so brown and expressive. “We write our own scripts. So don’t forget you’re the protagonist, alright? You’re the hero, you’ll overcome this.”

“God, Tony, don’t joke now.”

“I’m serious, baby. This is just a narrative arc, you’ll be okay. Just one of many. You have to live, Steve. I need you to be okay, Steve. Please.” 

Steve’s full on crying now, ugly, messy, his face hurt badly and it was hard to breathe. He didn’t recognize the howl that came out of him until Tony’s hands were on his cheeks, pressing his fingers on Steve’s eyelids. Tony wiped the tears with shaking hands. 

“We’re a happy ending, alright? Even if I’m gone. You still get your happy ending. Finish it for us, okay? Live a good life, Steve Rogers. I’ve _lived,_ I’ve been happy with you and the life we’ve built together. It’s been everything to me. So this ending is happy, too.” 

“No, no, not without you.” Steve’s used to crying in front of his friends now, so he didn’t try to stifle the sobs erupting from his chest. He kissed Tony. Both their faces were wet with tears. “There’s no life without you.”

There wasn’t.

Tony glanced at Rhodes and Pepper. Both averted their eyes and glanced at the open windows instead. Outside, New York kept screaming, rocking around in this blue-green sphere. 

He turned back to Steve. “You have the kids, baby. You’ll always have me. Be safe, Steve.”

* * *

They woke up that morning with JARVIS slowly filtering in the light from their tinted glass window. It crept up into the room like a slow crawl, painting the wooden floors in light colors. Steve kissed Tony awake. 

“Good morning, beloved.” Tony pawed at Steve's chest and settled on the space under his arms and ribs. 

Steve intertwined their fingers and brought Tony’s knuckles to his lips. He kissed each one and twisted Tony’s ring with his thumb. “How are you feeling today?” 

“I’m alright, baby. Happy. With you.” 

Somehow, Steve couldn’t help but believe the words were a lie. He couldn’t feel well because he threw up late into the night. Tony was trying to be strong for them—but he didn’t have to. He never said a word about the nausea he must have felt after he finished vomiting.

“Can you call the kids?” Tony reached for him, putting their foreheads together. “I love you. I love you everyday.” 

“I love you, more.” Steve sat up, letting the sheets pool over his waist. “You want breakfast in bed with them?”

“Yes, dear. They’re still my little babies and you’ll spoil us rotten by making almond flour pancakes.”

“Oh. Will I?”

“Yes, you will, baby.” Tony said in a low, raspy voice. He still has his eyes closed, but at least there was a soft smile on his face. 

Steve peppered more kisses on his face, careful not to shake Tony too much in case he got dizzy again. He went to the kitchen, took out the ingredients for a full on American breakfast and got to work. 

Steve mixed the pancake batter and made eggs on the other pan. The bacon sizzled on the back burner and he ran up the garden rooftop to fetch some white carnations. He wasn’t gonna cry. It was gonna be alright. It was gonna be a good day. Tony’s feeling better today. They’ll spend the morning in bed and just be happy. Yeah, Steve could do this. He’s not crying. He’s not.

Be happy, he told himself. Smile more. 

He ran back in time to flick the pancake as it bubbled up, all the while whistling a tune. As he turned around, he found Tony sitting on the barstool, forehead slicked with sweat. 

“I love when you sing that song. _And lying in your loving arms again._ ” Tony smiled, settling his hand on the counters. 

“I can almost feel your loving arms again.” Steve finished the song and dropped a kiss to Tony’s cheek. He caressed Tony’s jaw, then leaned down to nip at it. “Why’d you get up? You could have waited in the bedroom. I was almost done.” 

Tony shrugged, or at least tried to, instead he just grimaced. “I wanted to see your face. Simple as that. I love watching you make us breakfast. Always did.”

Steve swallowed, nervous that every day—every time Tony looked at him with soft eyes felt like a goodbye. “Tony. We’ll have more breakfasts like this. We will, okay?” He inched back, feeling the heat on Tony’s forehead. His temperature seemed normal, if not a little cold, but with being immuno-compromised, Steve worried. “I’m almost done, sweetheart. You alright to wait here for a few minutes?”

“Yes, god, what I would do for coffee.” Tony leaned forward, putting his chin to hand. 

He couldn’t keep it down. Iit was too acidic for his stomach. “How about I make you coffee and just put in a lot of milk?”

Tony twisted his lips. “Please, Steve, don’t bastardize my coffee. I’d rather not drink it at all.”

They bickered while Steve plated the eggs, pancakes, and fruit on a large tray. He took the carnation and shoved it in a mason glass, clapping his hands in exaggerated flourish. 

“J, baby, can you wake the kids and tell them to meet us in the bedroom? And if Harley makes a fuss, tell him his papa bear made bacon with maple-syrup.” Tony grabbed Steve’s arm and led them to the bedroom. It was a slow walk for Tony. He was always exhausted these days. He leaned against Steve and started humming their favorite song.

“You know, if I could, I would hold you in my arms forever.”

“Sap.” Then softly, he added, “Me too. I wish I could, baby.”

It’s a familiar feeling: bile rising in his throat, the feeling of his tears about to fall. Steve forced himself to smile. He opened the door, placed the tray on the side table before helping Tony into bed. Steve padded over with the tray of food as the kids came running in. 

“Bacon!” Harley jumped up, clapping, but climbed into bed with care. He placed himself as close to Tony as possible and stuck his tongue out at his siblings. “I’m the favorite, ha.” 

Steve grinned as Morgan went for the middle of the bed and grabbed the bowl of fresh blueberries. Peter, more somber than his siblings, sat beside Steve on the end of the bed. They all squeezed together as Steve began plating the breakfast. Morgan grabbed the carnation and twisted its ends off. 

She placed it on Tony’s ear and giggled. 

“You’re still as handsome as the first day I laid eyes on you,” Steve said, squeezing Tony’s calves. He loved quiet mornings like these, when they were all lazy together. It was domestic. There would be more meals in bed, just like this. Steve wasn’t giving up. Everything was fine. 

“Oh, shut up.” Tony opened his mouth as Morgan fed him blueberries. He chewed slowly. “You wanted to punch me in the face. You said, ‘big man in an iron suit, take it off and what are you?’ Now that I think about it, I think you just wanted my clothes off.”

Tony laughed as Peter and Harley twisted their faces, irritated at their parents. Steve pulled Harley close, and kissed the top of his head. “Well, how do you think you three were made?”

“Pops, we know how biology works. You and dad got a surrogate, obviously.”

“You have his nose, and his mouth. But only when you pout.”

“You like my pout, Steve.” Tony winced, sitting further up on the propped pillows. He moved a bit, rearranged himself, and let the kids eat. 

The kids’ conversation washed over them. All the while, Tony eyed him over their heads and mumbled a thank you. “How about we all stay in bed today? It’s Monday anyway, boring Monday. Let’s just stay here and have a movie marathon.”

“Yes!” Harley cuddled closer to Tony, putting his little hands on his father’s middle. He smiled up at Tony. Steve felt his heart soar the sight of his little family all together. 

“J, load up the original _Star Wars._ ”

* * *

“I want to go to the roof.” Tony was propped up on the bed. Blue lips. Steve kissed them every morning. And he’d do the same tomorrow. 

The words sounded ominous to Steve. It was too close to a goodbye. In the last few weeks, Tony's spent most of the day sleeping, consciousness fading in and out. He still had the energy to talk about futures— schematics, plans for the kids, what sort of Christmas and birthday presents they might enjoy. 

Steve knew the signs. He read the stupid pamphets the doctors handed him after every hospital visit. He just wished he didn't have to see it, wished that the inevitable would never come. 

“Alright. Do you want to bring your blanket?” The sun was out, but Tony was perpetually cold these days. He was wrapped up in a sweater, hair peeking out from his cap. Steve kissed his nose. 

Tony nodded, holding his hands up for Steve. 

Tony took off the knitted cap, dropping it to the floor as Steve lifted him in a bridal carry. Steve climbed the stairs to the rooftop, content to have Tony in his arms. Tony didn’t look fragile under the sun. He was still strong, sturdy even with his gaunt cheekbones and the lack of redness on his lips. His eyes were still bright and shining. That’s all that mattered. 

Steve sat them down on the wicker sofa, recalling summer nights they spent up here with the kids. There were tales from their time as superheroes told over s’mores. Morgan’s sticky fingers. Harley complaining he ate too much chocolate. Peter laughing through it all. 

Steve rocked Tony on his lap, arranging them so that Tony could rest his head on Steve’s chest. He settled the blanket over Tony’s body.

The sun was high up. Their bodies were slightly shaded by the veranda and the overgrown vines climbing up on the wooden structure. 

“Steve. I’m— I’m happy. It’s been good. I’ve had a good life with you, but I’m tired.”

“I know.” Steve hid himself on Tony’s shoulder. His body was cold even under the sun. “I’m — Tony, I. I love you. Please.”

There was no cure. If he closed his eyes, he’d see the doctors shaking their heads with matching grim expressions.

“I think…”

“Tony, no.” Steve choked on the words, shaking his head. He kissed the back of Tony’s head, his temple, his cheek. “No. Not yet.” 

“It’s gonna happen sometime, baby.” Tony huffed, his breath cold on Steve’s neck. “And loving you has been a privilege. It is, Steve. After Afghanistan, I didn’t think I could have this—have love, have a family, have a man who would care for me and weep me. Love. To grow old with you, it’s been a dream, baby. To look at myself in the mirror and see all these wrinkles in this old body and remember that shit, we did it. We loved each other. I love you. You love me. What a life, Steve. It’s been a good life. It still is, baby.” 

Steve stayed silent. Instead of replying, he held Tony tighter, hoping that somehow, his fingers around his dying husband would stop his last breath from ever coming.

“Promise me you’ll be alright, Steve. I need you to be okay after I’m gone.”

“I can’t promise that.” He sobbed out the words. “Don’t leave me. I can’t. I can’t do this without you.”

He couldn’t make empty promises. How many times did he have to beg, scream at the world, yell and pray at a God he’s been thought to seek during difficult times.

“Promise you’ll try, then.”

“I can do that. Try.”

“Good.” 

Tony fell in and out of sleep. He’d wake then mutter something about schematics, the kids, or being Iron Man, then cuddle closer to Steve. The sun was way up high, marking the time as past noon.

“Hold me, Steve, just like this. Your arms around me. I want it to be just like this.” If it wasn’t for Steve’s enhanced hearing and his acculturation to Tony’s mumbling, then it would have been difficult to make out the words. 

But Steve’s used to that by now. 

His eyes stuck with the tears streaming down his face. He didn’t bother it away. “I wish you didn’t have to leave me.”

“I’m sorry, baby.” Tony opened his eyes, trying to keep them open for Steve.

“It’s not your fault.” 

Tony twisted up, tilting forward to kiss Steve. It hurt to know how much energy the simple task required. This was Tony Stark, Iron Man, yet here he was, struggling to live because his body wouldn’t cooperate. It couldn’t sustain him. 

“I wish I could lie beside you every night. Wake up to you in the morning. Live the beautiful life we have. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. The worst thing I’ll do.” Tony grasped Steve’s jaw, turning it with a light touch. He traced Steve’s lips with a cold fingertip. 

Steve kissed it, once, twice, then ran a hand through Tony’s hair, feeling for the scar on the back of his head. “It’ll be okay, Tony.” 

They were both a crying mess. 

“Steve?”

“Yes?” 

“I’m sorry, I—wish I could wake up next to you tomorrow.”

“You will, Tony. You’ll wake up next to me. We’ll have breakfast together. How about I make pancakes with almond flour? The kids can join us. We’ll watch movies all day. Just like last time,” Steve whispered, voice hoarse. It didn’t capture the desperation he felt. “How about I make you another crown? You want carnations again?”

“Always carnations,” Tony nodded, pressing his head to Steve’s shoulder. “But later. Just hold me, Steve.”

“Okay, we have later. All the time in the world, right?” The sting in his eyes were back, but Steve pushed through. Tony needed him.

Tony hummed, a smile on his face. “Today, tomorrow, and the rest of our lives.”

“Alright, alright, okay. Good.” Steve scrubbed the tears on his blotchy face over Tony’s head and neck. Again and again. He couldn’t even wipe his wet face anymore. He listened to the beat of Tony’s heart, holding onto its sound the way someone might try to stop a ticking time bomb.

They were just waiting now. Waiting. Waiting. Wait. 

He read up essays and books on cancer, survivorship, and he’s had endless meetings with Tony’s doctors. They all said Steve needed to be prepared. But what the fuck did that mean? 

Blogs and memoirs detailed that the body’s organs would fail. How they might have to change their loved one’s clothes, how they might urinate on their beds, and not be able to eat anymore. How their loved ones might hallucinate, forget things, become completely different. Everyone’s bodies reacted differently to chemotherapy, but once they reached the end of life and the medicine couldn’t poison any of their cells anymore—because there was nothing left—then, they had to prepare for death.

Steve’s the so-called ‘man with a plan,’ but he couldn’t think of a battle strategy to cope with Tony’s condition. 

Tony didn’t meet most of what Steve read about. He was lucid, talkative on some days, though lately, he’s been quiet, energy coming in bursts. He still listened to the kids’ days and tales attentively. 

Tony comprehended their words and still talked science with Peter and Harley, even though it was hard for him to invent. His bones ached. His back hurt. It was a struggle to stand. But even through all the pain, Tony guided the boys’ science projects and watched DUM-E, U, and Butterfingers work on small-scale gadgets in the workshop with Tony’s and JARVIS’ instructions. 

Even walking was hard, but he loved it when Steve carried him. He always had a tiny smile on his face whenever Steve would lift him up from their bedroom and bring him to the bathroom. There was no shame in Tony’s eyes when Steve washed him in their tub. 

He’s an outlier. 

“Captain Rogers,” JARVIS announced from one of the outdoor speakers. “I cannot detect Sir’s heart beat any longer.” 

Steve grabbed onto Tony’s body, shaking it with the force of his cries. “No, no, no.”

“Time of Death is 2:37pm,” JARVIS added in a quiet voice as if trying to respect the moment. He almost sounded human.

“No, Tony, baby, please, wake up, please. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave the kids. Don’t, Tony, please. Open your eyes.” 

He didn’t know how long he stood on his knees, sobbing and soaking Tony’s sweatshirt. Steve couldn’t hear Tony’s heartbeat anymore. 

He didn’t know how long he stayed there. JARVIS sounded distressed, asking Steve to respond to simple questions and cues. But Steve was hardly breathing as he cradled Tony’s body to his chest. He kept feeling the pulse on Tony’s neck with his lips. He tasted bitterness in his tongue as he pressed a thumb to Tony’s wrist. Steve kissed his face, over and over again, cold and wet with tears.

His children found him, crying and howling at the world a few hours later. 

Steve never hated himself as much as he did in that moment when they all saw Tony’s dead body in Steve’s arms.

* * *

Tony died on a Tuesday.

Steve’s world trembled. Maybe his memory failed him. For all of Abraham Erskine's talk about enhanced memory, he wished he didn’t have to remember Tony this way: eyes closed, lips still plum and slightly blue. His body still. His chest and ribs no longer rising with every breath.

He took his last along with Steve’s heart. 

It was just yesterday he was telling Steve about their happy ending. 

Pepper handled the funeral service with the care and efficiency only someone who knew Tony could do. She informed their close friends and issued a press release with the assistance of Tony’s personal solicitors and SI’s public relations team. 

A portrait of Tony Stark hit _The New York Times_ paper on Wednesday morning, replacing the slotted headline on a Congressional scandal. The world cared more about Tony Stark’s life and eventual downfall than they did about the allegations of money laundering in Congress. 

It was a beautiful portrait—he looked handsome under the title: _The Noteable Life of a Superhero, Genius, Billionaire, Father._ Local papers dedicated spreads of Iron Man’s superhero activities while the _Time_ and _The New Yorker_ provided an overview of Tony’s life as a child prodigy, his ‘tumultuous’ teenage years in MIT, his bachelorhood, the time in Afghanistan, and until finally, Iron Man was born.

No one dared to print a word of slander all knowing that Ms. Pepper Potts could scorch their careers until there wasn’t even ash as evidence. She also issued a statement asking photographers and journalists to respect Steve and the children by not taking any photographs of them in public for the foreseeable future. 

All in all, Pepper did what Steve didn’t have the energy for.

Tuesday was the blackest day of his life and its darkness bled through all the days that followed.

The memorial service was on Friday.

That morning, Steve woke to his daughter’s wailing. Morgan screamed and howled until her throat was raw. Her face was mottled and her freckles were stained with tears. She hugged Steve’s bicep tightly, body shaking. 

His chest tightened with the wish that his children wouldn’t have to go through this. All children must, yes, it’s life. But she’s so young, barely even eight; she has so many years ahead of her that Tony will miss. 

“I want my dad, I want dad, papa, please. Why? I want dad.” 

Steve cried, holding her against his chest. “I know, baby, I know. Me too. I’m so sorry, I’m sorry. I’m so damn sorry that you have to go through this. I know. It’s alright, let it out.”

“I want dad. Dad. Dad. He’s—he’s gone?” Her eyes were shut tightly and she shook with the force of her pain.

“I’m so sorry, darling. I’m so sorry.” Steve hiccuped, wishing that Tony was beside him to comfort their daughter. 

“He’s gone?”

Steve didn’t want to say yes and confirm that Tony’s dead. He’s read about it the last few days as if he wasn’t sitting beside his husband in those last moments of his life as if he wasn’t holding Tony’s hand and kissing his cold face all over. 

He didn’t want to tell her about heaven. Tony Stark was a scientist and so were their children. They believed in what was observable, replicable, what could be proven and debunked. Despite the fact that they met aliens, gods, and superhumans, the notion of heaven seemed too much like faith, something too philosophical. Steve didn’t even believe in heaven anymore. 

But hell was a living creature and he’s woken up in the pits of its belly since Tuesday. Maybe even before. Maybe when the doctors showed him charts and told them about cancer. 

Steve wiped the streaks on her face, wondering if Peter and Harley were still asleep, if they were alright, if he should ask Pepper to refer them to a therapist or a grief counselor. His mind whirled with all he had to do. 

He needed to get their affairs in order. But he couldn’t leave his bed. He hasn’t taken a shower in days. He hasn’t even brushed his teeth or bothered to wash his face. 

The bed still smelled like Tony: spicy, a hint of something masculine, but also a tang of medicine, an acidic touch. He stopped smelling like grease and motor oil since the recurrence. It didn’t feel real. 

Somehow it felt like those mornings when Morgan had a nightmare and she’d crawl into their bed asking to be cuddled. Tony would snuggle her and push her hair back as Steve kissed them both, wishing them sweet dreams. Then, in the morning, Tony would roll out of the mattress, bed headed and demanding breakfast. 

It was so easy to close his eyes and imagine those mornings.

“I want dad back.” She repeated the words over and over again until she finally passed out from exhaustion. “Please.”

“Me too.” He shut his eyes and pictured Tony kissing his tears away. 

Steve woke, alert, to the dipping mattress. Harley came to his back and held his neck with his tiny hands, sobbing. Peter was on the foot of the bed, face red, sniffing. He looked at Steve with pure anguish. 

Steve tried to beckon him over but Harley just sobbed harder and held on. “Peter, come here.” 

Morgan rushed awake with a cry. Peter, god, he looked like he aged five years in the last three days. Steve knew this kid, he put it on himself to take care of his siblings. Steve tried to offer an encouraging smile as Peter slid beside Morgan.

They were a mess of tears. A portrait of a recent widower with his three kids crying.

“It’s Friday,” Harley mumbled behind Steve’s back. “It’s today.”

“Yeah.” Peter stared at Steve, voice monotone. “Well have to get ready soon, pop.”

“I know, I know. Let’s just stay here for a minute, alright?” Steve swallowed, patting Morgan’s head as her sobs picked up again. “Just a little while.”

She looked up at Steve, eyes wet, mouth trembling. Tony’s eyes stared back at him. “I don’t want to go, papa.”

“We have to go, sweetheart. It’ll be alright.” He hushed her, then turned his arm and held Harley closer. He’s like Steve—explosive in his anger; they expected Tony’s passing to be hard on the kids. Shit, it was hard on Steve. It might be difficult until the day Steve died himself. 

No matter how many times Tony explained the process of cancer cells to kids, pathologized it, instituted scientific terms and delineated the decline of his biology, it didn’t prepare the kids for the emotional impact of his passing. It didn’t prepare Steve. 

One could describe the science of the body and its demise in detached terms, but when death happened, loss and grieving was nothing but emotional. 

Harley shook on Steve’s side, wiping his face on Steve’s shirt. “No, pops, we don’t wanna go. Come on, please.”

“Everyone will be there. Just our family, it’ll be okay, they’ll wanna see you.” 

“No.” Morgan and Harley repeated. 

Steve looked for Peter’s support. “You alright, Peter?” 

“Yeah. We gotta go guys.” He sat up, scrubbing at his hair, but the movement was sluggish. “Come on.” 

Steve wished they were still small so he could just hold all three of them in his arms at the same time. His heart was flayed with the wanting, the longing, and the hurt this is his life now. When they were all toddlers, he and Tony used to prop them all up in the middle of the bed and watch them coo and roll around, reaching for their dad and papa with pudgy hands. 

They were still babies to Steve. Might always be babies to Steve forever even if they kept getting taller. Even if their voices get deeper and they don't want to talk to their papa about childish things. They were _his,_ and that’s all he had left.

Steve pushed up, bringing Morgan and Harley to his lap. Harley might be too big for it, ten and a half years old and he’s got all of Tony’s snark. He didn't resist Steve; he slumped over Steve’s chest and hid his face. 

“Your dad will always be with you. With us,” Steve swallowed, squeezing the kids’ shoulders. He looked at the set of photographs on the wall, chest heaving. “It’s true. Everyone will say this to you. He lives on through you, through us, through our memories. There’s a million and one things I could say to you kids. I’ll tell you all about your father. Everything he _is_ to me. But there’s only one thing I can say,” he choked, his vision blurry. Morgan wiped at his tears as Peter shoved over and held them all together. “He loved you. And you’re the best part of him. Of us. And leaving was the hardest thing he’s ever done. He didn’t want to go. He didn’t. He wanted to watch all of you grow up. We — we were supposed to grow old together.” 

His chest ached like getting slammed with a repulsor to the chest. He cleared his scratchy throat, smiling when Harley and Morgan scrubbed at his face. He turned to Peter with blurry vision. His head felt so heavy. “He loves you. Always remember that, please.”

“I will. We will.” Peter wiped at his nose, slumping beside Steve. “He loved you too, pops.”

“I know, sweetheart.”

Maybe that was the worst part of it.

“Sir, Ms. Romanoff and Mr. Barnes are out in the lobby and on their way up.” JARVIS announced. 

With a heavy sigh, Steve ushered the children to their bedrooms to get ready for the memorial service. 

Steve prepared for battle. He looked at himself in the mirror, showered, shaved, put on a crisp white shirt and slacks. 

He met the kids in the living room. Morgan’s hair was still wet and dripping over the back of her white dress. She opened her arms and held onto Steve’s legs. Harley padded over, eyes grim and stood beside Steve.

“You alright, Peter?” He stared at the kitchen counter. Their house was a mess. Used tissue paper was thrown haphazardly all over the floors, dirty dishes in the sink, a mountain of letters addressed to the Rogers-Stark family offering condolences from fans and the public. 

Steve picked Morgan up and walked to where Peter was leaning over the counter. 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah, it’s his favorite.” Peter turned to him, his black tie unknotted and skewed. 

Steve picked up the tinted sunglasses with shaky fingers. He swallowed, plastered on an encouraging smile and offered it to Peter. “Well, try it on. I bet it would look good on you.”

“Would look better on dad,” Harley said. 

Peter put on the sunglasses, pushing it up against his face with an index finger. 

Steve looked at Peter. He’s all Tony, from his brown hair, to the sharp descent of his nose. He’d go through puberty soon and there’s no doubt that he’d have Tony’s strong jawline. It’s like his children have all the best parts of Tony Stark. 

Peter nodded, offering a quiet comfort, and it hurt to see something that belonged to Tony be used by their son. Tony was supposed to be here, dammit, wearing that damned posh sunglasses. Then, Tony’s supposed to make a joke about being the most handsome Stark. Then, he was supposed to kiss Steve and then he was supposed to—

“Papa,” Morgan pressed her small fingertips to the corner of his eyes. 

Steve swallowed, his throat ached all over. “Alright, my babies, yes, Harley, you’re still my baby, always. Are you all ready to go?” 

Their responses ranged from “no” to “yes” to “I guess.” 

The elevator doors opened, revealing Natasha and Bucky’s grim faces. They nodded, held the door open, then got in, pressed the close button. He felt breathless as the elevator travelled down. 

Happy greeted them in the garage with a solemn tilt of the head and opened the doors to the limo. Peter hopped onto the shotgun seat, glasses still in tack. Happy looked at him for a moment before catching Steve’s eye in the rearview mirror. The car began its ascent into the streets. 

Outside their brownstone were photographers and journalists taking pictures of the car. Some went as far as knocking on the tinted glass. He tried to shield Morgan from it, turning her head to his arm once the screaming began. 

“Jesus, these journalists have no respect.” Bucky grunted.

“The world keeps turning. It never stops for them. It’s always the next story.” Natasha replied. 

This might just be a moment for them, a fragment of history in their journalistic accounts, but this is Steve’s reality now. It’s his everyday. There wasn’t another story. 

Manhattan was busy on an average day. Millions of people crowd in subways and push each other off on the streets. But since Tuesday evening, the city mourned the loss of Tony Stark. All the major news outlets covered his death while social media erupted with mostly positive descriptions of his life and subsequent death. 

Well, Steve wouldn’t really know this other than the fact that JARVIS monitored anything related to Tony Stark and gave Steve a summary of it every morning. It began after Tony was diagnosed for the first time. He never asked JARVIS to stop even when Tony went into remission. The AI’s daily precis provided an overview of Tony’s health levels, his calendar, and any news related to SI, Avengers, and Tony himself. 

He was informed that a parade was scheduled that day since the memorial service wasn’t open to the public. New York did its thing—it marched and mourned the death of their resident superhero. 

The limo passed through Harlem where there was a community event in honor of Tony, and then, there was a local memorial in Central Park. This was Tony’s turf and his hometown made sure he was remembered.

Steve would be pleased if he could feel any emotion other than rage or misery. His life was a pendulum swing between wanting to punch a hole in the wall and the desire to just not exist. 

It was unfair to his kids. 

They passed the city and entered the freeway upstate. 

The service was held at the Avengers Compound upstate. 

It was a clear day in April. There was no snow and the lake remained unfrozen, rocking and rocking along the docks in a tease. The sun shone high and bright, a perfect companion to Tony’s request for making the memorial service as a celebration.

There were jasmines at every corner of the Compound starting from the concrete path leading to the facility. They filed out of the vehicle, one by one, and gathered in the lounge. 

Tony joked about making them all wear Iron Man suits, once, when he was in remission. Back then, death seemed like it’d never come. Steve was just ecstatic that they had more time—more birthdays, more holidays, more evenings under the New York sky. 

But in the end, Tony relented on white: let there be light. 

Pepper caught him by the elbow as they entered the facility. Steve hadn’t been there in months. Steve was too busy sitting beside Tony’s hospital bed and this facility brought back happy memories that only tasted sour in his mouth.

She kissed Morgan’s head. 

“Thanks for organizing this. I really appreciate it.” He hugged Pepper and tried to pass Morgan off to her, but she clung to his neck instead. She refused to be set down.

Pepper nodded, her bangs falling to the side of her face. She squeezed Steve’s hand and led them to the plush sofas. “He’s at rest.” 

Steve tried to console Morgan, holding her on one arm while he made rounds to greet Sam and the rest of the attendees. They were a small group. It was just the Avengers, Maria Hill, Sharon Carter, and Nick Fury. 

Peter’s been silent since they left the penthouse. He still had the glasses on. He hasn’t said a single word. Bruce and Bucky tried to engage him in a conversation, placing a glass of water in his hands and a plate of food on his lap. 

Peter just stared at them with blank eyes. Steve sat beside his two sons and arranged Morgan on his lap. He kept trying to feed her but she kept spitting out her food. It was naughty, but he didn’t have the energy to reprimand her. Steve didn’t have an appetite either.

They didn’t talk.

There was nothing to say. 

Steve lived with a man for two decades and built a life together. Words couldn’t capture the aching howl in his chest or the desire to be dead, too. He just had to sit with it.

He pushed Morgan’s hair back, rocked her side to side until she fell asleep with tears like train tracks on her face. The team stayed quiet, engaged in soft, murmured conversations that Steve couldn’t really comprehend. He heard the voices, but he couldn’t register the words. Steve couldn’t even make sense of his current predicament. 

It felt like he was underwater, trapped under ice again. His neck felt stiff and vision blurry, so much so he couldn’t tell the difference between Scott Lang and Bucky in the corner of the room. 

Someone—Rhodes—pried Morgan’s sleeping form from his lap, hushing her when she mumbled and reached for Steve. Natasha was suddenly beside him, pulling him into a tight hug.

“You’re not alone. Remember that, Steve.” She squeezed his shoulder then fixed his tie. Battle ready, again. When could they stop making every day into something that’s a warpath?

“You ready?” 

“No.” 

He’d never be ready.

Natasha bit her lip, smudging her nude lipstick. “Sometimes people aren’t ready for love. But I don’t think any of us are ever ready for loss no matter how much we try to prepare ourselves.”

“I keep thinking, we were Avengers, superheroes. We should have plans, strategies to prepare for loss. But it doesn’t work like that, does it, Nat?” Steve examined the sitting room. This was a place he and Tony built together.

“We just have to go through it, Steve. We can’t predict how we’ll feel until we get to that moment.” Natasha linked their arms and led him out of the Compound. 

Steve didn’t realize that Pepper began leading them to the gardens. Morgan was still in Rhodes’s arms, awake and looking back at Steve. 

Wide, brown eyes. Too much like Tony’s. 

Steve waved at her, forced a smile to his face. “Sometimes I wish they didn’t look so much like him. But they’re the only thing about him that I have left.”

“You have his memory and so much more, Steve.” 

“But I can’t hold onto that.” His voice wavered. The sun was too bright and it irritated him. It was supposed to be somber. His husband just died. But instead, the gardens were beautiful and irrationally, it made him angry that pretty things could still exist when the most stunning person in the world just passed away. “I can’t pull that into my arms. Kiss it. Sleep next to it.”

“You have the kids.” Natsha stepped over a ladybug, heels clanking on the wood of the garden’s pathway. 

Steve sighed heavily, looking up at the clear blue sky. The jasmines were all in full bloom, bright white petals opening on every tree. The breeze blew its fragrance and the scent hit Steve with the memory of Tony planning the Compound’s construction. “But they’re not Tony.”

“They can’t be anything but who they are. But I’ll reckon they’ve got a big chunk of Tony in them.” 

They reached the lake, it was clear, an almost perfect reflection of the sky. But it has a tinge of green as the waters rock and rock, catching the color of tree planting beside it.

He had to go over to the lake, say something, anything—but he couldn’t find the words. He blinked, once, twice, before turning to Nat. 

_Save me,_ he wanted to say. 

Instead, Steve stared at her furrowed brows. Her eyes were green, clear and unwavering. There’s no doubt that she was trying to be his anchor at the moment. He wondered if she was like Tony, who needed the darkness to utter what they couldn’t say in daylight.

“Steve, it’s gonna be a fight. Everyday is gonna be like preparing for battle. But you’ve done that your whole life and you can keep going.”

“No. I’m tired.” He shook his head, looking away from Natasha and to his children by the docks. “I’m tired of fighting. I hate that everyday is a battle to live. That’s what it was like for Tony in the end. I just… I’m tired, Nat.” 

“It’s been a beautiful fight.” She quirked her lips for a fleeting moment then walked them forward. “Still is. That’s Bukowski for you.”

He snorted softly. Natasha always reiterated quotes verbatim in difficult times as if others have already said what they were feeling. He couldn’t capture grief, though. Words were just an approximation of the feeling and if Steve tried, the only way he could describe the loss of his husband would be being torn between wanting to follow him and die too, and then being fucked with grief because his kids needed him. 

Whoever said love was tragic didn’t get it right.

Love was traumatic. 

But that’s the choice of love, wasn’t it? Knowing that the loss was inevitable, but choosing it anyway. Bullshit, Steve thought. 

His family all stood by the lake and they parted with nods and pats on the back for Steve. Morgan stood between Harley and Peter, holding onto the latter’s hand. 

With a pinched expression, Pepper handed him a set of flowers. Carnations. 

In the middle of the bouquet was Tony's old reactor. He barked a laugh at their inside joke. Tony once told him that he might have pursued Pepper if the tide blew that way. But they weren’t the type of people to chase after each other, not like Steve and Tony. 

Selfishly, he was glad that he pestered Tony all those years ago. Chased after him despite all of Natasha's subtle warnings about jumping into bed with Tony Stark. 

What did they know? Nothing. 

He looked at the arc reactor in the bed of flowers. 

_PROOF THAT TONY STARK HAS A HEART._

And he took Steve’s with him.

He gripped the flowers, turned to his friends and family. Morgan was bawling on Peter’s pant leg holding onto his waist. He hushed her, pulling at her hair. Steve wished he could see Peter’s eyes, but the shades remained. It looked good on him. Pepper settled beside Harley and held his hand. 

“This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.” He swallowed, holding up the flowers and the arc reactor. Steve thought of Tony’s own words to him. “Letting him go is the hardest thing I’ll ever do.” 

The tears flowed. Steve shook his head trying to regain his composure, but he didn’t have to, right? He just lost Tony fucking Stark. The kids were crying and holding onto each other. Bruce wiped at his fingers. Natasha tilted her head, fists clenched. Thor arrived late, as always, but had a hand on Clint’s shoulder. 

He dropped to his knees, swallowing. “We’ll be alright, baby.” He coughed, attempting to get rid of the lump on his throat. “I’ll miss your battle cry, Shellhead.” 

He was a goddamn mess, dizzy with the fear of facing life alone. 

Steve raised one hand, beckoning his children over. They stood beside him as Steve set the bouquet to the lake. The jasmines and peace lilies shone vividly against the waters. It pulled away, sliding away until it was just a dot in the distance.

Then, gone.

* * *

It was Tuesday again.

The subway to Brooklyn was empty. Steve walked around the block three times before deciding to enter the old brick building. He forced himself to get out of the house and attend again. 

The first meeting was shit. He was a quiet, brooding face that marked him as newly widowed to some long time attendees. The second meeting was also shit. The third meeting was awful and he walked out into the back alley and punched the brick wall. 

He’s been a widower for almost two years now. He hated that word: w-i-d-o-w-e-r. It was ugly and it didn’t roll off the tongue with ease. It was like swallowing shards of glass.

Steve dropped down to an empty chair by the door. It was arranged in a circle but he preferred a seat with a view of all the exits.

Someone was talking, introducing a new attendee, asking them about their week. It was polite and not at all what Steve wanted. He wanted to jump out of a building and have his body burnt. If there was a God, maybe he’d see Tony. If heaven didn’t exist and there was only hell, and shit, he’d probably end up there, he hoped Tony would welcome him with open arms. 

“My sister keeps telling me I just need time,” one of the attendees, Imogen, said. 

"It's a lie. Time doesn't heal the wounds. It doesn't take time. It just gets worse on some days. Then other days are better to handle, you feel normal. You could go for a run, go out with friends, then you might go to the grocery store, and pause, and think, that 'Hey, they'd like this.'" The woman swallowed, fixing her gaze at her sandals. "Then maybe in the middle of that aisle you'd turn, hoping to see them. But you're alone. Love doesn't go away. Moving on happens, yeah, of course. We all gotta do that, it’s why we’re all here, right?” She tilted her head, suddenly, her piercing gaze was on Steve. “But we gotta go on. Keep rolling the dice. Breathe in and out. Go live the next day…” She looked away, lips wobbly. 

Steve heard her erratic pulse from across the room. It was like he was seeing a reflection of himself.

“To the love of my life. I only have three ugly words: You left me. Then another: I love you.” Imogen didn’t cry, but she kept crossing her legs. She shook her head. “No. I _still_ love you. I don’t think I’ll ever stop.” 

Imogen twisted her legs, trying to get into a comfortable position. It was useless. Group was uncomfortable. They had to dig for their bullet wounds. It’s supposed to be cathartic, but he felt exhausted after every session. 

But that’s if Steve needed help. He was fine. He was here grudgingly at Pepper and Bucky’s insistence.

Imogen flicked the diamond ring on her left hand. "My sister keeps trying to set me up on dates. I've finally given in and went. I've been seeing this woman for three months now. I think I'm having trouble forming connections. I don't want to get attached. I don't know. I'm not really there. I don't really try in the relationship and I can already tell that she’s getting tired of it. I’m not there. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready. Just. It’s stagnant. It’s not like _I don’t want_ to move on. I do, I truly do. But grief is a fucking bitch."

“It wouldn't bother me. I'm an asshole. I wouldn't give a fuck. I'd walk away. I don't give a shit, you hear that? I live my life every goddamn day without him. He's buried. Six feet under. So what do I give a shit about you, the person I’ve been fucking for three months? Nothing.” Aisha shook her head. 

Steve wondered whether she wore sunglasses to the meetings so they wouldn’t see her eyes. If they watered. If they were red-rimmed by the end of the session like the most of the attendees. 

She was spitfire with pitch black hair, like the somber mood of these meetings. “I hate that I do that. That I’m an asshole to someone else just because I’m hurting. I don’t know how to stop.” She nodded, setting the group to move on. 

Eden sighed heavily. “Like Imogen, I also went on a date. Uh, the other day. First time in forever and then I started crying before the bill came. She asked about my interests and the first thing I thought of was my late wife.”

“But. You two already took the jump. That’s a brave step, trying to be whole again, finding purpose. We have to keep going.” Steve finished, hands in his pockets, balled into fists. 

He’s not entirely sure what possessed him to talk. Group today was bleak. He wanted to give a little hope. 

“Bullshit. Captain America is here bullshitting us.” Aisha took her sunglasses off for the first time, her eyes were swollen and bloodshot. “You don’t believe that so don’t try to convince us with any of your speeches. You’ll never be whole again once half of you is buried, so please. Do _you_ have purpose? Do you know what that is?”

“My kids—” Steve tried, leaning forward. 

She held up a hand, “No. You can’t tie your purpose to someone else. That’s what I’ve done. What I’m still doing.” She blew a frustrated sigh. “Sorry, being an asshole again.”

Steve bit his lip. She was right. “No, it’s alright.” He swallowed. “You’re right. That’s what he said—Tony, you all know—” he struggled to get the words out, to refer to his husband to people who didn’t actually know him. “I shouldn’t just live for my kids, that’s not right. He said that it’s not over. That our ending was happy too. I have to be happy. He told me — he made me promise that I’ll be okay. But I… I don’t know how to accept that I won’t see him again if it’s not in my dreams. My memory. It isn’t happy now. He said—we had a happy ending. But it wasn’t that. That wasn’t how I remember it.” 

He wiped his tears with the heel of his hand, irritated that he was here at all. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself, yet here he was, uttering these words and wondering where they were all coming from. He thought he was fine, doing well, given everything—he worked, he cared for his children, listened to them attentively, and ate healthy. 

“Do you ever feel like you can’t sleep in the middle of the bed? The left side was his. The right was mine. And I still keep to my side after all this time. I don’t know if that makes sense. My body doesn’t want to move to the middle.” Steve shrugged. “I guess, all I’m saying is that...I don’t think endings are ever happy. You wake up one day and the love of your life is dead. You don’t know what to do with yourself. You can’t eat because making food takes too much energy. You’re not even hungry. You just cry until there’s nothing left. Then you realize you gave that love your all. There’s nothing more. No more love to give.”

“The body remembers. Always.” Aisha inclined her head, signaling some sort of solidarity. She tucked her sunglasses over her hair, then crossed her arms. Steve’s watched Tony do the same hundreds of times over the years. “Sometimes I think it’s just a matter of training ourselves to live without them. Forcing ourselves to pretend that there’s more out here. In this damned life.”

Psychologists and analysts in SHIELD watch security tapes and note that crossing arms over one’s body as a sign of defense. But Steve didn’t agree with that. He did the same everyday like clockwork. Instead, it felt like he was trying to hug himself, offer his body some sort of comfort, a testament to grounding oneself. 

In a moment of clarity, he mimicked her gesture, then struggled to get the words out. “It’s left to me. I have to do something.” 

“I don’t think we have to do anything but live. Try to be happy, even though it seems improbable,” Another attendee said. 

“Try,” Steve echoed, remembering the promise he made to Tony.

* * *

One morning in late April, Steve woke up.

It’s Tuesday again.

Another year without Tony has gone by. It was too early in the morning. The sun was rising. 

Steve stood by the windows observing New York wake up. Outside, a garbage truck made its way through through the streets, taking all the things people want out of their homes. 

He made his way down the workshop and pressed his hand on the access bar. Inside the workshop, he sat on the sofa, scrubbing a hand through his head with a heavy sigh.

On the desk across from him is an Iron Man helmet. 

Steve’s a hoarder. He couldn’t let go of Tony’s suits. His workshop remained pristine with minor changes as the kids used it as their own lab now. The bots maintain the area, cleaning the suits so they don't get dusty. 

All the tools on Tony’s favorite workbench were still there, untouched. A screwdriver, a pipe wrench. Even with the kids coming down to the workshop, they’ve respected Steve’s wishes to not mess with Tony’s favorite worktable. Harley and Peter now had free reign with the bots, suits, and machinery as long as they checked in with Steve about their projects. Morgan took over the sofa and had her own sketchbook there now. 

He pictured Tony sitting there, a weld in hand as he turned to Steve with a grin. 

“JARVIS, can you call the kids to the workshop once they all wake up?”

“Noted, Sir.” 

Steve stayed there, staring at the helmet, dreading what he’d find. Beside him was a sketchpad filled with drawings of Tony in the workshop. It was still open on an unfinished sketch. Maybe life's like that, incomplete. Always in the state of becoming. 

He didn’t bother flipping through the papers. 

It’s true. Grief came in waves. 

He’s gotten better these past couple of months. He still thought of Tony every day but with some sort of reluctant acceptance.

There was no time like the present. He got his ass up and walked to the table. He clicked the manual release from the helmet and entered his access code. 

It was the coordinates of their park bench where they had their first kiss. The park bench where Steve bent down, pretended to tie his shoelace and presented Tony with a ring.

“You have one unread message.” 

Steve shoved a hand to his mouth and bit hard on his knuckles until he tasted blood on his mouth. “Alright, alright. Tony, baby, alright.” He returned to the sofa, breathing hard, trying to calm his racing heart. 

To hear Tony’s voice again somewhere other than his dreams and memory…

His children showed up to the workshop one by one. Peter’s first, then Morgan, finally, Harley came crashing through with his bedhead and cowlicks. It’s like seeing Tony all over again.

“Morning, kids.”

“Good morning, papa.” Morgan climbed on his lap. Peter and Harley flanked their sides.

“Your dad left a message for us. I was thinking we could finally watch it. It’s time, I think,” Steve explained, gesturing the helmet. It gleamed under the workshop’s lights, a sharp red and gold. “Play message.”

An image of Tony popped up. Alive.

It wasn’t him.

But it was, right?

It's a hologram. But it’s almost close to the real thing. 

Tony didn’t look healthy. He had circles under his eyes and he was so thin. But, his eyes twinkled and he had a smile. Steve wished he could kiss its upturned corners. 

“Hi, baby, it’s me.” Tony sat down on his favorite chair in the workshop. He spun it over, arms leaning against the back. “Left you a little something. I miss you already. I’m still here but.”

The hologram—no, Tony—gestured with slow hands. 

“Steve, I told you about making us a happy ending. Promise me you’ll do that. Everyone wants that, me included. But baby, life doesn’t always roll that way. I hope you’ll never have to play this. I hope like hell that I’ll get better and be in remission. I want to spend the rest of my life with you and our kids. I was thinking we might get a cabin in Pennsylvania or move to Monterey. Get a house by the beach. You’ll paint the sea and I’ll be there right next to you. Shit. Steve. You’re the best thing. The part of me I’m proud of. Steve, if you do play this, it means I’m gone. And that’s alright, darling. We’ll all get there. It’s just sooner for me. I wish it wasn’t. But I hope— what a world. It’s been a dream, Steve. 

”Morgan, Peter, Harley, it’s been an adventure being your dad. I wish I was there to protect you from darkness and whatever else this universe brings. I wish, damn. I wish so much, baby. To be there for you. See you everyday. But you’ll grow up in this reality. Without me. God, I told myself I wasn’t going to cry. Kids, I hope like hell you’ll do good. _I know you will._ You’ll be alright, you have your Papa with you. 

”All endings happen. That’s life. But the scientist in me wants to argue that’s all relative. Time, death, existence. You don’t go be a genius and know all these things about life and not have an existential crisis. But fearing and waiting for death was just that. I had to accept it even if I didn’t want to. I wish I wasn’t a better man, maybe I’d find a way to fix this. I woke up every morning wondering if it would be my last. Would my organs finally fail? Would I go into cardiac arrest in the middle of the night where you, Steve—where your father, God, would find me with my last breath. I hope that when I die, it’s in your arms, Steve. You know our song. I hope it’s just like that, Steve, with your arms around me. Everything will be fine. This is the hardest thing I’ll ever do—leaving you. It’s the last thing I’ll do.”

Tony kicked off from the chair. 

He came closer, so near Steve.

Steve and their kids.

“I love you.”

Then, a click.

His image vanished. 

He’s gone.

“Message deleted.” The helmet announced. 

“No, wait. JARVIS can you get it back?” Harley made a sound of protest, shooting up to grab the helmet.

“I’m sorry, Harley. Sir only wanted it to be played once. It was programmed to be terminated immediately after viewing.”

“J,” Steve swallowed, putting a hand over Morgan to console her. “You still have the recording of us viewing it, though, right?” 

Please let him have it. It wasn’t Tony. But it _was_ Tony. It was Tony’s message. Steve needed it. 

“I’m sorry. Sir, also programmed the recording’s deletion.”

“Oh. Fuck.”

“If it’s any consolation, Captain Rogers, Sir wanted it wiped from the servers because he didn’t want you to re-watch it again.”

“The first time’s hard enough, Pops. I don’t think he wanted us to see it again and again. We’d go insane.” Peter said.

Steve cried, holding onto Morgan, tight. He’s always been careful with his strength around them, but he wished to God they weren’t in the workshop so he could smash all the suits to take out his resentment. 

He was so fucking angry at the world. He’s helpless to the rage inside him and this bloodthirst. He wanted to put the Captain America suit back on, rip out the stars and stripes and just go fucking kill something. He felt sore all over, overwhelmed by his own tears and the sound of Morgan and Harley’s sobs. Peter was stoic as ever beside him, a hand on Steve’s shoulder.

He inhaled deeply, wiping a hand over his nose. He felt dizzy with wrath and the itch to yell at the world. 

This wasn’t healthy.

He knew that.

But fuck it. 

He lost the one good thing in his life. 

He looked at his kids, seeing Tony in them, and vowed to hold on to the last thread that gave him hope.

Steve couldn’t survive anymore loss.

* * *

Time slipped by, fast—like sand slipping from his fingers when he closed his fist—and slow, like being trapped in unmoving traffic. 

The world kept spinning, around and around, on a set path around the sun. Steve's own course was astray. He's just a burning star now, cycling through space until he reached his end.

He spent a lot of time on the rooftop, observing New York from below in black out mode. No one could see him break down and be lightheaded with tears as memories of Tony engulf him.

Steve ran his hand on the nearly dilapidated garden. The gardenias and dwarf carnations were blooming, growing even though he’s long abandoned tending to them.

Steve stared at the wicker sofa. It didn’t feel like looking at the end of the world anymore. It was just a place where an ending happened but life kept moving. Steve dropped on the single seat across from it. He didn’t feel as heavy-hearted today, but he’s been feeling threadbare and his limits for so long it hardly mattered. 

Peter announced himself with a sigh. He sat on the wicker seat, all the green vines in the background climbing the walls frame him. “You should work on it again. He’d like that.” 

“You think?” 

“He always fancied carnations. I think it would be good to do something you like, pops. Even if they remind you of him.” Peter scratched the back of his neck with eyes downcast. “I talk to him sometimes, even though he can’t answer. Sometimes I’m just in the lab, needing to work through an equation or project, and yeah, talking it out, with him, even though he’s not there, it helps. I figure things out.” Peter smiled, heart warm and conflicted. “Even in death he’s still the hero.” 

Steve gripped the edge of his seat before leaning forward to grasp a vine. He ran a fingertip on the leaf. Life kept moving forward. “When’d you get so smart, huh?” 

“Since I was born. My dad _is_ Tony Stark.” 

“That’s right.” 

“And I’m your son. Captain America’s son. Gotta keep going forward.”

Steve observed the empty pots stacked in the corner of the roof, packages of soil lining the east wall. “Where do you think I should start?” He couldn’t fathom where to begin. Even with his eidetic memory, he can’t remember what his life was like before Tony. 

“I don’t think it matters, pops. As long as you start somewhere.”

Steve’s eyes stung with pride, affection, and the pang of loss he feels every time he looks at Peter. He’s grown these last two, three years. Taller, but not by much. He might take after Tony’s stature. There’s more definition in his shoulders and his chins getting prickly with soft hairs. “Sometimes it’s hard to look at you, kid. I see him, and the knife twists. Sorry, Pete, it’s unfair to say that.” 

Peter shook his head, lips turning into a frown. He copied Steve’s pose and dropped his chin to his hand. “No, that’s alright. I look at you, and I see you without him and I think of him and how wrong it is that he isn’t by your side. You two were always together, never an inch apart. Never. Dad, pops... it’s...” Peter swallowed, looked away, then heaved a deep sigh. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think, why us, why my family, why my dad.”

“There aren’t answers for that,” Steve said. “We’d go crazy trying to explain why.” 

“I’ve stopped asking why. I know how it happened. Biologically, I can explain it to myself. To Harley. To Morgan. But dad’s gone. I might never fully understand that. Ever.” 

“Peter.” He scrubbed his eyes, got up, and sat beside Peter. Steve pulled his son for a side hug and dropped a kiss to his head. 

He was too old for it, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he bumped Steve’s shoulder with a wry grin. 

This was the exact place he held Tony in his arms. Now, Steve did the same for their son. 

“I learned something. From the group.” 

Peter stifled a laugh. “Yeah, you finally learned something? Now we can exchange notes because Dr. Mitski has been telling me to journal my feelings.”

“That’s good, Pete. That’s good.” 

“I was being sarcastic...” Peter twisted his lips. “But no, it helps to talk to someone,” he added, pointedly. 

“Yeah.” Steve coughed. His son was much more adjusted than him. “You’re right about that. I uh, learned in a group that. Grief is part of love. Love is worth it. I’m trying here, alright? I’m still trying to come to terms with that.

“Mitski said we just have to feel it. It comes in waves, in and out. I think I’m getting better. Some days are bad for me. I think it’s the same for Harley and Morgan. But it’s not linear. There isn’t a single universal process. That’s what being human is. It’s not like science, clear trial and error.

“When you live, when you’re the one who has to bury the body and go on with your life, you’re at the mercy of grief. And it just goes on, and on, and on, Peter.” 

His time will come, too. But hopefully not for a long, long while. 

He was never going to go through loss again. Steve wouldn’t bury his kids. He would die and they’ll have to put his body to rest. He won’t suffer the pain of burying another person in his life. This was the last time.

“Yeah, pops, but we have now. We have today, tomorrow. We’re still here. Morgan, Harley, me. Uncle Rhodey, Bucky, Sam. Aunt Carol, Nat, and Pepper. We’ll be here the next day, the day after,” Peter mumbled on Steve’s shirt. “You have us.”

He could feel his t-shirt getting damp. Steve scrubbed Peter’s head. He let his own tears fall. 

“You know, you dad said something along those lines too.” Steve choked, not bothering to hide the sob that escaped him. “You’re both right.”

“What did he say?” Peter hugged his waist.

Steve glanced at the set of carnations lining the wall. He was remiss on tending them because it hurt too much to be reminded of plucking them for Tony. 

But they were Tony’s favorite part of this entire house—a place they built together with the hopes for a future.

They did have that. There was just a time limit.

Maybe people go on and on with their lives never thinking that they could lose the love of their life until they reached old age when it was inevitable. But Tony was young and there were promises of another few decades of love, hope, and dreams.

“Your dad said that we have the rest of our lives.” Steve inhaled deeply, trying to center himself. “And I think, in that moment it was true. He spent the rest of his life with me. With us. It was true for him.”

And now, Steve had to do the work of living the rest of his life without him. Just a memory, a specter that haunted him in the quiet of the nights, a shadow that followed him like a carres. He saw Tony in their kids—in Harley’s crooked smirk, in Morgan’s eyes, in Peter’s earnestness. 

Maybe this is what they meant when they said, “you’ll see them again.” Because they’re not truly lost. They lived on in memories. Tony was historicized as _Tony Stark_ and Iron Man. But for Steve, he’ll always be _the husband, the father._

The man who stayed up too late and complained about Steve leaving the bed too early in the morning. The one who pouted and demanded breakfast in the middle of the night. The man who wouldn’t stop fretting about his children. The man who packed their lunches and cut up Morgan's sandwiches into stars. The one who taught Harley how to build a basic robot. The one who taught the children the periodic table before the alphabet. The one who loved Steve and promised him _today, tomorrow, the rest of their lives._

Steve was raised Catholic. His mother was an Irish immigrant and she instilled the word of the Lord into Steve. When he went into ice, he lost the rosary she gave him when she passed. Tony spent years tracking it to no avail. Sometimes things were better left off not knowing. 

These days, with gods, aliens, and a boatload of science experiments, Steve’s fate in the Lord has been shaken. He didn't know if he still believed in an all-knowing God, but he wondered about Tony's soul. He couldn't stand the thought of burying his body six feet below ground, to be eaten away, to decompose. 

They burned Tony's body but maybe even then, the particles and molecules making him up will go into the universe and transform into something else. Hopefully, something beautiful and worthwhile. 

Maybe, there was a metaphor about the human body recycling its parts for the rest of the world to use. Tony told him that humans are made of stardust and genetic code that evolved then made them what they are—human. They were breakable and filled with tragic hope. Steve may have serum cycling through his veins, but he's always been just a man with a dream. For a long time, that dream came true — he lived so many lives since 1918. But one thing was certain: Steve was a husband to the best man he knew. 

“You still have your life, pops. I have mine. We’ll make do.” Peter said. 

“Alright, Peter. I’ll try.”

“You gotta.”

“I will,” Steve promised with a nod. He glanced at the sky, an endless blue, just like the day of the funeral. There’s nowhere else for him to go. “You wanna help me out with the garden?”

“Sure, I’ll bully Harley into helping too,” Peter snorted. “Yeah, right.”

“Hmm, give him some credit. He might enjoy it.”

“You can make Morgan a flower crown, just like you used to with dad. You always made him king.”

“Yeah, she’ll like that,” Steve started at the abandoned garden and mentally listed some of the items he’ll need to cultivate it.

* * *

Steve woke up on another Tuesday with a clear goal in mind. 

He padded to the bathroom, brushed his teeth, and hopped from one foot to another. He looked at himself in the mirror, tilted his head, and examined himself. 

It’s been forty-one months without Tony and he’s alright. Steve was going to make it. He’ll wake up tomorrow and continue to live another forty-one months. Then, another three decades after that. Time would stretch on, but he knew one thing is certain: everytime he closes his eyes, he’ll see Tony’s smirk, his wide-eyes, surprised, happy. 

It’s been forty-one months of holding his breath and waiting for the thread that tied him to this world and Tony to snap. 

Now, Steve understood.

He settled in, got comfortable, and let the grief wash over him. In the mirror, Steve observed the lines on his forehead, the curl of his lips. He has aged in the three years without Tony. His hair was lighter due to the gardening under the sun. There was a freckle on the tip of his nose and he suspected that Tony would kiss it if he was alive.

But like everyday for the last forty-one months, Steve woke up alone in a house they built together. And things would never be alright.

But he lived. 

He could live with the loss.

Steve stripped, scratched his chest, and slid the shower door open.

He shut his eyes and let the water wash over him, wishing it’d take away the guilt and the maddening grief that followed him like an angry gray cloud. 

He reached for the bottle of soap for the first time in three years, flicking the cap open. Steve breathed the smell of lemon blossoms as it filled the bathroom. He squirted some of the body wash onto his palm, squeezing with more strength than usual. Unused for years, the lid was slightly clogged. 

Steve dropped the bottle to the caddy, staring at the rest of Tony’s shower products lining the walls. He decided that once he’s used up the cedar shampoo, the rest of the conditioner, and the shower gel, he’ll put them in the recycling bin.

There was no use in holding onto objects that belonged to dead people. 

Steve swallowed, took the sponge and scrubbed his torso and the back of his legs. He recalled how Tony used to get on his knees and tell Steve to put his hands on the shower walls. He had complained about the shower tiles digging onto his knees and how he wasn’t as spry as Steve. Then, Tony had taken the shower sponge and scrubbed the back of his thighs, teasing Steve by caressing his ass, before dutifully soaping the rest of Steve’s body. After Steve was clean of soap, Tony kissed his shoulder then passed the sponge to Steve.

He would never have that again. He sat with the memory, then shut the water, dried himself with awareness, making sure to towel his hair so the water wouldn’t get on the tiles. Tony had hated when Steve walked off, still dripping with water.

Steve got dressed, dropped the towel to the laundry basket, and got to work.

He started breakfast, cooked up oatmeal, cut up fruit, and readied a packed lunch for the kids. They rose from their rooms in waves. Morgan’s first, hopping up to the counter to watch Steve make Harley’s sandwich.

She braided her hair today. 

“Looks like you finally learned how to do your hair the way you wanted.” Steve smiled at the two thick strands of dutch braid resting on her shoulders. 

“JARVIS had some recordings of dad braiding my hair and he let me watch till I got it right.”

“That’s good.” Steve picked up one of the tails and tugs on it. He was not allowed to watch any recordings of him and Tony in the house. Even Tony programmed the AI to make sure Steve didn’t spiral in memories.

Maybe he already accounted for Steve’s perfect recollection due to the serum. He didn’t know. Steve was learning that it’s unsustainable to live in _what if’s._

In the last forty-one months, he asked himself whether any action would have made a difference and whether Tony’s death was inevitable.

“Pa, your hands are dirty with lunch meat.” She shifted away, batting his hand with a frown.

“Well, you’re not supposed to be up there anyway.” Steve rolled his eyes. 

“Well, dad always said you weren’t allowed to do a bunch of things, but you did it anyway.” 

Tony told the kids that Steve signed up for the army despite being rejected several times and became Captain America just on stubborn will.

“Low blow, bringing dad into this.” Harley sat on the kitchen table and shoved a spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth. 

“Well, any time you bring up dad, you’re bound to win an argument.” Peter set the messenger bag to the empty seat—Tony’s seat—and grabbed a sliced apple. 

“That’s true,” Steve said, solemn. He picked up Morgan from the counter and deposited her to the chair. They eat breakfast with Peter mumbling about school and programs. Harley teased Peter about a girl named MJ and Morgan complained about the lackluster breakfast selection, asking for a cheeseburger for dinner. 

“Alright,” Steve looked at the clock hanging from the mantel in the living room area. “Time for school.” 

The kids grumbled. 

“I learn more at home. It’s so basic. I’m just droning. I could teach the class myself, pops.” Harley sighed but took the proffered lunch bag. 

“Well, you gotta have some sense of normal routine.”

Harley said, “Could go to MIT now like dad.”

“We’ll never be normal.” Peter shrugged, took another apple slice, and headed down stairs. “Come on, we’ll be late.” 

“Dad said that normal is boring. I don’t want to be boring.” Morgan deadpanned and skipped out of the room, following her siblings. Then, she rushed back, pigtails bouncing. Morgan pulled at his hand, laced their fingers together, and squeezed three times.

Steve was speechless. He swallowed, searched her awaiting eyes. They were brown, wide, and expressive, so much like Tony’s and it only hurt a little bit. Like an ache to a month-old bruise. Like a quiet murmur. It was okay to look at her and think about missing Tony and loving him and feeling like shit and waiting for the world to just swallow him whole. It was alright. 

Steve stared at their laced fingers and squeezed back in three slow successions. “I love you.” His voice sounded faint even to his own ears, like he was underwater and hearing the world go around and around. 

“Did dad tell you what we meant when we did this?” She pressed her fingers to his knuckles. One, twice, three times. 

Steve shook his head. “No, but I had a guess.”

“You’re right, pa.” She grabbed their laced fingers and pulled him towards the staircase. “I love you.” 

She pressed once, twice, three—four times.

I love you, too.

I love you, more. 

He walked her all the way down to the door, where Harley and Peter waited by the steps. Overcome with the pain of grief and gratefulness that he still had his kids, Steve pulled all three of them into a hug.

“Have a good day, kids.” He ruffled their hairs and watched as they walked down the street. They disappeared, blending in with the rest of New York’s pedestrians. 

Back in the brownstone, Steve collapsed on the sofa. He nursed a black coffee, blowing and making ripples. He took a sip, closed his eyes, and thought about how Tony’s lips touched the rim of the mug over so many years. 

It’s all fine.

He went on about his day, cleared the plates off from the kitchen table, washed the dishes, dried them, then stacked them inside the cabinet. He washed the mug then placed them on the dish rack. 

He would never bring Tony coffee in that mug again. But Steve still had use for it. He leaned on the counter, picked up the mug, and traced the lining of the words in bold curly lines: _LOVE YOU MORE._

Steve scrubbed a hand through his face then propped the mug down. He set it next to his own favorite, the black mug that had _Red Hot Lover_ printed on it. 

Steve walked away. He’d see it again tomorrow. 

He watered the plants on the kitchen counters and cut off the dying leaves. He didn’t want to snip the greenery, but it had to be done. Cutting off the dry leaves would allow the remaining foliage to grow. Steve took the kitchen scissors and cut half of a drying leaf then waters it.

Steve stepped back, admired the Pothos without all the brown leaves drooping down. The sun shone through the large windows in the living room, catching on the picture frames and the bamboo flooring.

He swept the floor, waxed it, then dusted the art pieces. Steve stacked some of the books from the coffee table, tucking them to the shelves. He ran a hand over the spine of some of his favorites, picking up some books at random. They were Tony’s collection, a hodgepodge of books ranging from sci-fi, biographical, to journal annuals.

Steve smiled. He still had things in his life that belonged to Tony. 

He headed back to the kitchen, scrubbed the sink, then the ground floor’s bathroom. By then, everything in the common areas were clean and there was no use in denying the inevitable. 

Steve shuffled to the bedroom. His bedroom now. Not theirs. Steve didn’t share it with anyone anymore. 

He stripped the bedsheet and pillow cases then dumped them to the laundry basket along with the comforter. He took the mattress and its box spring and removed it from the room. Steve breathed deeply. 

The bed didn’t weigh anything to Steve, but his heart felt heavy carrying it out of the room. He set it in the hallway, careful to not disrupt the hanging photographs of their family.

There’s a mix of maps, framed news articles, wedding photos, and art pieces hanging on the hallway’s walls. Tony’s presence was everywhere in the house. He examined Tony’s schematics of one of the suits and smiled. 

The world moved forward, but the note captured a singular moment that changed Steve’s world.

It’s alright, he told himself.

Steve returned to the room, ignoring the empty bed frame. He’d get a new bed delivered later today and recycle the old one. It won’t smell like Tony. The mattress in the hall no longer carried Tony’s scent, but Steve liked to imagine that there were still remnants of Tony, on there, somewhere. But he will have to move on, for his own sake and as a way to honor his promise. 

He’d try. Steve was trying, even if the effort meant letting go of things he wished to carry for the rest of his life. 

He ran up the attic, took a couple empty boxes, and returned to his bedroom closet. 

It took all morning to get his fingers to let go of Tony’s suits. He’s surrounded by hangers and Tony’s collection of loafers. His silk ties. His yellow ACDC shirt, stained with holes. No, Steve couldn’t let go of everything. Not all at once. 

He put the yellow shirt back to the drawer then wiped his eyes. His vision was blurry, but that’s alright. He moved forward, grabbing a handful of Tony's jeans and placing them into the box, topping it with a set of Tony’s running shoes and taped it shut. 

Steve’s saving the suits for Peter and Harley if they ever want it. He opened the drawer and ran a finger over Tony’s hoard of watches and sunglasses. Steve sighed. He’ll save that drawer for another day. Maybe Peter could help him and choose which ones he’d like to keep.

Steve sorted out the closet. He rearranged his own clothing, hanging the blazers and suits. There was too much space. 

Tony had more clothes than him, hence, the extra large walk-in closet. The cupboards holding Tony’s shoes and briefcases are now empty. There was too much space. Too much empty space. Too much.

 _That’s alright, you’ll be fine,_ Steve repeated to himself. 

Maybe he could convince Morgan and Pepper to take him to Saks Fifth someday. He’ll fill out all of the empty spaces in the closet with things that belonged to him. 

He didn’t touch the “house clothes” that Tony wore around the workshop. That was a mission for another day. For now, Steve grabbed the boxes filled with professional clothing and brought them to the attic. It took him three trips in total and he stacked them on top of each other. 

Returning to the bedroom, he entered the en-suite bathroom, dug around for cleaning supplies. He scrubbed the tub and toilet, got on his hands and knees to make sure all the soap scum from the shower’s tiles were cleaned. 

Then, once Steve ran out of tasks, he opened the medicine cabinet.

He stared at the razor, unused for three years now. 

Tony used to trim his goatee every morning, making precise cuts before tousling his hair with a touch of product. Sometimes, he caught Steve admiring him from the mirror and winked. Steve looked at the mirror, but he was alone. No Tony. Just Steve. 

He grabbed the razor and tossed it to the garbage. He stared at the electric toothbrush for a beat, then laid it on the counter. He’ll recycle it later. 

All that’s left in the cabinet is his deodorant, toothbrush, razor, and —

For the first time in forty-one months, he settled his eyes on the corner of the cabinet. There was Tony’s wedding ring. 

Steve sobbed, an ugly, broken sound. He set the ring on his palm, prodded it, twisted it until the light caught over it. He remembered getting down on one knee and presenting Tony the box with a laugh. Then, like a hurricane, there was the memory of prying the ring out of Tony’s cold hands. Of Steve on the rooftop garden, surrounded by his kids and the body of their dead father. 

He bawled, head hanging low, vision blurry with tears and suddenly, he was shaking with the force of his cries. Steve pressed his fists over his eyes. The back of his hand was cold, alleviating the heat and sting from his tears. 

“Alright, alright,” Steve nodded, catching his reflection. His eyes were bloodshot, but that’s normal for him these days. Maybe he’d never stop crying. Maybe he’d never stop mourning.

Grief didn’t go away. It stayed. There’s the beginning of it—death, but in Tony’s case, it began long before he took his final breath. It began in the diagnosis and Steve has held his breath since the doctors announced the cancer’s recurrence.

“Alright, Tony. I promised. Alright.” Steve stared at his fingers. He flexed his hands, open and close, then used the thumb and index figure of his right hand to pry the ring from his left. “I’ll be alright.”

Steve’s hysterical sobs echoed in the bathroom. For the first time, he let himself hear and process his anguished cries.

He didn’t know how much time passed. His ring finger was bare and there was a tan line on where it used to be. 

Steve dropped his ring beside Tony’s in the cabinet. There’s a soft click, then he swung the little door shut. He observed himself in the mirror once more and forced himself to smile. Steve took two fingers and pulled at his cheeks. He looked awful with pasty red cheeks and his face felt tight. But he maneuvered his fingers to make himself smile. He could do this. It’s a close mimicry for now.

Maybe, one day, he could stand in this mirror by himself and smile genuinely. For now, he shivered and stared at himself. 

There’s nothing else to do but try to mend himself. 

Maybe the time would come. 

Maybe it wouldn’t. 

He nodded to himself and walked away. His feet took him to the rooftop. 

There’s the garden he’s trying to build again. It’s slow going but he had all the needed materials to start planting cucumbers again. The row of dwarf carnations haven’t fully bloomed, but there’s two white flowers, striking in a sea of greens. Steve took the petals and rubbed his fingertips on the stem. 

“Activating rooftop shields for blackout mode, Captain Rogers.” JARVIS announced, sounding hesitant like he’s disrupting something important. 

Steve shook his head, knowing that the AI is watching and analyzing his posture. Tony created him with so much heart. “No need, JARVIS. It’s alright.”

“As you wish, sir.” The rooftop shields lift and he hears the busy streets of New York. A cabbie honks and there’s the sound of children giggling below. The sounds washed over him and somehow, in a city filled with millions of people, he felt vulnerable and alone.

Maybe the number of people surrounding him didn’t matter if the one that _did_ matter was gone. 

Sometimes love was easy. Sometimes it was all about heartache.

He knew he’d always hold onto Tony—the memories were marked and branded to his brain. There would be no forgetting for Steve. 

There was no end to grief.

That’s okay, too.

Steve plucked the flower, sat on the wicker chair, and dropped the carnation on the space beside him.

Prowling around the roof’s edge was a tabby cat. It’s returned for food.

Morgan and Steve found it scavenging around the tomato plants one day while they worked on harvesting the basils and squash. He tried to turn it away the first few times, annoyed that it was picking on the garden. But then, it meowed, its brown eyes deep and dark, and a little part of Steve remembered that he used to love things he didn’t even know. He took chances. 

Morgan petted the wild thing and cooed. Since then, they’ve taken to placing a bowl of cat food by the ledge. It came every other day, usually when Steve was working in the gardens. 

Sometimes it showed up, sometimes it didn’t. 

On the days the tabby cat didn’t swing by, Steve wondered how the cat fared off, did it get enough food, were they still alive? 

Some days Steve was lost in the harvesting, focusing on tenting the garden, watering the plants. He didn’t think of the cat—

He didn’t think of _him—of Tony._

When Steve didn’t think of Tony, he wondered if he was alright, if he was at peace. He might never be whole again. 

Tony took a part of him and Steve will never get those jagged fragments back. That’s fine, too. He could say goodbye to parts of himself as long as those pieces belonged to Tony.

Grief was part of love. Horrible, but worth it. 

Steve sat on the patch of grass and breathed in the smell of New York mixed with the carnation and the acidic taste of loss. He picked up the flower hoping more would grow as he continued to tend the garden. Once the carnations and jasmines were in bloom, he’d make another crown, drop it on the wicker chair. 

Steve was suspended in animation for seventy years but this was the first time he understood the notion of slow death. Day by day, a little part of him vanished.

The world turned and Steve’s life tilted. Grief was such a powerful reminder of life’s fragility. Even as the serum continued to circulate in his veins, Steve was mortal just like everyone else. He has known loss, all his life, but this was the first time the foundations of his personhood shattered. There’d be no rebuilding, not when half of his world was gone. 

Steve couldn’t imagine the future without him. Another forty-one months, maybe Steve would live another forty-one years without him. It’ll be alright, he promised himself. Little by little, he’ll stitch himself together. 

The cat glanced up from the bowl, then jumped off the ledge. It disappeared and Steve was once again alone in the garden.

All he had was this single carnation.

“Until our paths cross again, Tony. Be it with you in the sky, in your red and gold suit. Me on the ground, looking up at you in awe and adoration. Always. Today, tomorrow, and the rest of my life.” Steve wore a shaky smile and let the sound of the city wash over him.

_-fin-_

**Author's Note:**

> I know that for millions of people this year has been a shitshow. Lots of loss, lots of grief. Life, love, loneliness, more loss. It's difficult. Maybe there's nothing else to do but ride the wave. I know I am. What a fucking life. The struggle to be human. I hope that you found some comfort and solace in this fic. Thank you for reading. Kudos and comments are like a big hug for me. Please give me the hugs and cuddles, I need it. <3
> 
> “I think I am beginning to understand why grief feels like suspense...So many roads once; now so many culs de sac.”


End file.
